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MOUNT AUBURN. 




*"'"/'//•/, f:,nr,m 



CHAPEL IN FRONT. 



MOUNT AUBURN: 



ITS SCl^^NES, ITS BEAUTIES 



ITS LESSONS. 



A U T II O K OF 
" s r u i> I H ^ IN THE F t ;■: L I) and forest." 



" And we will sleep a pleasant sleep, 
And not a care sliall here intrude, 
To break tlie marble siilitude, 

So pcacclul and so deep." 

IlENUV KlUKE V.'IHTE 




BOSTON AND CAMBRIDGE: 

jamp:s munroe and company 

18G1. 






Entered according fo Act of Congress, in the year 18G0, 
1!y Jamks Munuoe and COMrANY, 
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 



C A AI B K 1 D G E : 

THTJRSTOW & MILES, 

r R I N T E U S . 



JACOB BIGELOW, M. D., 

TO WHOM THE PUBLIC IS INDEBTED FOR THE 

FIRST IDEA OF RURAL BURIAL FOR THOSE AVHO 

DIE I.V THE CITY, AND THE ORIGINAL 

PROJECTOR AND PATRON OP 

^lOUNT iiTJBUH^T CEBEBT SIX -S", 

THIS VOLUME 

IS RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED BY 
THE EDITOR. 



PREFACE. 



Ix was the intention of the Editor to prepare a work 
that should contain a particular description of the objects in 
Mount Auburn. He was afterwards persuaded that this 
could not be so interesting as certain themes suggested by 
these objects, and having a general application to burial 
customs. The details which have been omitted were more 
suitable to a work intended as a guide-book to Mount 
Auburn. Similar matters, compiled in a judicious and in- 
teresting manner, are published weekly in " The Mount 
Auhurn Memorial,'' — n journal conducted with excellent 
taste and judgment by Mr. SafFord. As announced in our 
Prospectus, it was also a 'secondary object of this work to 
offer incidental remarks on the general principles of taste, 
that should govern the artist and proprietor in the construc- 
tion of monuments and fences, in the planting of trees, shrubs, 
and flowers, and in the general disposition of all these ob- 
jects. We have endeavored to avoid all uninteresting details ; 
for it is designed that the work shall not possess entirely a 
local or temporary interest, but shall be instructive to many, 
and afford themes of consolatory reflection to all. 



CONTENTS. 





AUTIJOUS. 


PAOE 


Ancient axd Modern Tomes, . 


The Editor. 


1 


Rural Burial, .... 


" " . . 


. 8 


Stanzas, 


Rev. C. Wolfe. . 


14 


The Gateway, . . . . 


• 


. 15 


The Ghapel, ..." 


. 


IG 


History of Mount Auburn, 


Compiled. 


. 18 


Pleasure of Tombs, 


The Abbe St. Pierre. 


28 


Poetry. — Pilgrims, 


Mary Ilowitt. 


. 33 


The Moral Influence of Graves, 


Editor. 


34 


Poetry. — Life and Death, 


Florence. 


. 39 


Sepulchral Monuments of the 






Middle Ages, 


Pettigrew. . 


42 


The Grave and the Tomb, 


Rev. J. Pierpont. . 


. 47 


Flowers Around Graves, . 


Editor. 


54 


Poetry. — Burial of a Child, 


Mrs. Sigourney. 


. 59 


Ancient Interments ln Great 






Britain, .... 


Pennant. 


02 


Curious Rites of Different 






Nations, 


Compiled. 


. 68 


On the Principles of Funereal 






Sculpture, 


Editor. 


72 


Poetry. — Mount Auburn, 


Daniel Ricketson. . 


. 78 


Religion and Sculpture, . 


Pettigrew. . 


81 


The Twilight Burial, . 


Florence. 


. 84 


Monumental Sculpture, 


Editor. 


94 


Poetry. — I Went to Gather 






Flowers, 


(( 


. 101 


Ancient Funereal Practices, 


Compiled. 


. 105 



CO^'TE^!TS. 



T:!E SErULCIlRES OF TlIEHES, 

Old Graveyards, 

Poetry — The Old Burying 

Ground, 
English Cemeteries, 
Graves of Children, . 
Poetry. — Tue Spirit's 

Questioning?, 
Ancient Burial, . 
CiiRit^TiAN Burial, 
EriTAPns AND Inscription:, 
Poetry. — Burial Ground at 

SiDON, 

On Inscriptive "vTritinc, 
Flowers for tue Dead, 
Funereal Emblems and Devices, 
Poetry. — The Funeral, 
Mourning Customs 
Ancient Greek I'^pitaphs, 
Graves "Without a Stone, 
Poetry. — The Unknown Grave. 
The Catacombs of Rome, . 
Heart Burial, 
Poetry. — Where Dwell the 

Dead? . . . . 
PtEPUBLiCAN Burial, 
Poetry. — The Pauper's Death 

Bed, . . . . 

Trees in Mount Auburn, 
Funereal Characters of Treks, 
Poetry. — Frail Loveliness, 
Fences and Hedges, 
Neatness of the Grounds, 
Poetry. — Our Lost Childhood, 
Monumental Trees, 
The Past of America, 
Poetry. — Mount Auburn in 

Autumn, 
Interior Beauties of Mount 

Auburn, 



AtrTIIOU.''. 

Buckingham. . 
Editor. 

Atlantic Montljly, 
?('rs. Stone. . 
Editor. . 

^lary Ilmvitt. 
iMrs. Stony. 

Editor. 

iMary Ilowitt. 
Drake. 
Mrs. Stone. 
Editor. 
Sjuthey. 
Mrs. Stone. 
Sek'ctc/d. 
Editor. 
Miss Proctor. 
Atlantic Montlily. 
Pottigrew, 

Selected. 
Ed.tor. . 

Collins. 
Editor. . 

Mrs. Lewis. 
Editor. 

Miss Very. . 
Editor. . 
Florence. 

Mrs. FuIIlt. 

, Editor. 



1C9 
111 

Tl'.» 
124 
135 

1-10 
143 
151 

IGl 

170 
174 
179 
187 
192 
199 
207 
214 
219 

22G 

220 
2C0 

235 
238 
243 
249 
250 
255 
2G0 
2G3 
2G7 

273 

276 



CONTTINT.S. 



XI 



Poetry — Tiik Xa.ueless Grave, 

IIUMILITV IX ARCaiTECTVRE, 

Poetry. — They are not There, 
OiN tue Afklictions of Life, 
Poetry. — Deatu of tue Aged 

Man, .... 
IIallo'.ved Groun'ds, 
Poetry. — The Tide of Time, 
The Three Funerals, . 
Poetry. — Present in the 

Spirit, 
On the Burial of the Dead, 
Poetry. — Lines, &c, 

iSIODES OF Bl-RIAL, 

Poetry. — Our Life, 
PiOMAN Obsequies, 
Poetry. — Tue Memory of the 
T).-\D, .... 
Early Christian Ous^quies, 

S0RU0\r AND IT.S ReCOM T LNSIi, 



AI.TIIORS. PACK 

Mrs. Langdjn. . . 285 

Editor 2S8 

Selected. . . .294 

Zimmermann. . . 295 

Mrs. Sigourney. . fiOO 

Editor. . . . 30-t 

"... 311 

Miss Pardoe. . .314 

Ivfrs. IL J. Lewis. . 318 

Rev. 'John Brazer. . 319 

II. K. V>niite. . . 332 

Rev. John Brazer. . 334 

Miss L. L. A Very. . 343 

Rev. John Brazer. . 344 

]\Iiss Ilemans. . . 354 

Rev. .T.)hn Brazer. . 357 

Editor. . . . r.GS 



LIST OF PLATES 



Front View of Chapel, 

Pilgrim Path, 

The Dowse Monument, 

" Adams' Monument, 

" BiNNEY Monument, . 

" Leland Tomb, 
View of Consecration Dei.l, 
The Mountfurt Tomb, . 

" Lowell Monument, . 
Gardner Brewer's Monument, 
Central Squake, 
Fuller Bukial Lot, 



(Front Title ) 



, 7 

17 

41 

53 

61 

71 

80 

93 

104 

113 

123 



Xll 



LIST OF PLATES. 





PAGE 


Harvard Hill, 


. 134 


Knight Monument, .... 


. 142 


' The Appleton Monument, 


. 160 


Hazel Dell. 


. 173 


^ Channing's Monujient, .... 


. 186 




. 198 


Consecration Dell, ..... 


. 213 


The Foss Monument, .... 


221 


•^ " Earle Monument, . . . , 


. 237 


-^ Oxnard's Monument, .... 


. 2G2 


^^ Gossler's Monument, .... 


. 275 


'■ Loring's Monument, .... 


. 287 


The Chase Monument, .... 


303 



MOUNT AUBURN: 

ITS SCENES, ITS BEAUTIES, AND ITS LESSONS. 



ANCIENT AND MODERN TOMBS. 



When comparing the fimereal structures of ancient 
and modern times, I have been struck with one remark- 
able difference between them. Those of the ancients 
seem more generally to have been built for the purpose 
of exciting the sentiment of admiration, while those of 
the moderns appeal rather to our ideas of fitness and 
propriety. Men displayed their patriotism in the early 
ages, by consenting to give their labor for the construc- 
tion of some vast work that should proclaim their 
national greatness to the rest of the world. It was no 
matter whether this great building was devoted to the 
living or to the dead, to the purposes of religion or of 
war, if it was only of sufficient magnitude to excite the 
astonishment of mankind. The works of the ancients 
are distinguished, therefore, by their cost and magnifi- 
cence. Their temples, their palaces, and their tombs, far 
surpassed the same class of structures erected in modern 
times; and the more remote the date of these ancient 
works, the more stupendous and costly do they appear 
to be made. The inference to be drawn from these facts 
1 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



is, that the sentiment of admiration is fully developed in 
the savage and the barbarian, and that it precedes the 
development of those finer sentiments that distinguish 
the civilized man. 

But though man in a barbarous state can deeply 
admire certain works and objects, his admiration must 
be excited by something massive, stupendous, and indica- 
tive of great physical power. To arouse this feeling, 
sculpture must be colossal, architecture must vie with 
the mountains and emulate the skies, or sink deeply into 
the recesses of the earth. Intellect he cannot appreciate, 
except as it is manifested by its control over large masses 
of material objects. Hence the monarchs of ancient 
nations sought the reverence of their subjects, not only 
by the display of magnificent trophies of war, and costly 
and splendid temples and palaces, but also by the vast- 
ness and magnificence of their tombs. The sepulchres 
of Thebes and the pyramids of Egypt could not be built 
in the present age. The intelligence of modern times 
would revolt at any such sacrifice of the labor of men 
for the erection of works, which could serve no better 
purpose than to excite the awe and wonder of an 
ignorant populace. Men are not more utilitarian in 
their intellectual habits than in former times ; but the 
public will not tolerate the follies of ancient despotisms ; 
and the masses, being more intelligent, will not submit 
to being employed in labor for which they receive no 
just recompense. The privileged classes know, that if 
they could afford to build such works, they would be- 
come a theme of ridicule and not of admiration. 

Hence, as the world has advanced in intelligence, the 
magnificence of all such structures has proportionally 
diminished. The period that preceded the invention of 
writing, or the age of hieroglyphics, was the epoch of 



ANCIENT AND MODERN TOMBS. 



vast temples, palaces, and toml3S, and of colossal statuary. 
Dui-iiK' this era were built the temples of Tentyra, me 

pyramids of Egypt- «« ^V^^'^^'"' "^ '^^''^'' '"'^ fZ 
vast works which cause us to wonder no more at the 
genius and perfection of art manifested in them and a 
The hnmense labor and cost that must have attended then 
construction, than at the stupidity of d- P^'! ^ ^^ 
could thus slavishly do the will of the projectors of these 

"The next epoch was that which succeeded the inven- 
tion of letters, before the art of prmting -- ^-7';^; 
The to,nbs of this period were kss magmficent, though 
the priests and monarchs still sustamed th«r sway o.ei 
Z minds of the people, by appealing to the.r senfm 
o admiration in the greatness of the.r temp es and t e 
trophies and statues which were deposited m them. The 
Jng classes were intelligent and enlightened by sc.enc , 
as in Greece and Rome, though the masses had^^"- 
above the level of the barbarous nations. In his age 
the relics of the dead were burned, and heir ashes 
dlsited in urns. Tombs were, therefore, less revolt- 
Z -d the burial places of friends were heU more 
sa:;ed than by the barbarous nations, who bmied their 
dead in sepulchres and pyramids. ■ 

The thirf epoch was that of Christianity, when kno.l- 
ed.e and cultivation were spread among the common 
iL through the equalizing influence of 1 11s religion^ 

Mank ud began to think less of the particiJar mode of 
lUanhino u j ^^^^^ j^^^jj,^ 

trl sentiments connected with the dead, which are 

mo t observable in a highly civilized people. Barbarous 

\ ;- .™e venerate the tombs of their ancestors, 

riw -StTtde of that feeling of posthumous 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



friendship and romantic veneration for the memory of 
the departed which are peculiar to modern Christian 
nations. It is a sentiment too spiritualized and poetic 
for any of the ancients, except the Greeks and Romans. 
It seems to have come up at the same time with the 
sentiment which we call* a love of nature, and is perhaps 
one of the legitimate fniits of Christianity. The dead 
were buried in the churchyard, from the belief that, by 
such a mode of burial, they secured the salvation of the 
soul when placed under the protection of the cross ; and 
they were laid in a grave, that they might sleep in the 
bosom of nature, and under the sacred light of heaven. 

But Christianity has been very slow in performing its 
work. In the middle and feudal ages great expense was 
still lavished upon the tombs and monuments of kings, 
princes, and nobles. Hence the fourth epoch, or that of 
rural cemeteries, is of recent date, and affords an example 
probably of the most expedient and benign method of 
disposing of the remains of the dead. In the United 
States this mode of burial has been carried to the nearest 
perfection ; and though there is a proneness among our 
people to copy some of the senseless follies of the Paris- 
ians, in manifesting their respect for the dead, and some 
of the useless ambition of the English, in the erection 
of costly marble monuments, — notwithstanding these 
circumstances, rural burial is probably destined to be 
carried to perfection in beautiful simplicity, by some 
future examples in this country. 

When we read of the tombs of the ancients, and 
consider their grandeur and their magnitude, we are 
prone to feel humiliated, because the monuments of those 
early times so far surpass our own in cost and magnifi- 
cence, and even in the genius that must have been 
required to plan and design them. But we should cease 



ANCIENT AND MODERN TOMBS. O 

to humble ourselves by any such reflections, if we did 
but consider that, at a remoter period, extending far 
back into the ages of barbarism, they were still more 
costly and magnificent than in the middle ages ; and if 
we could look with a prophetic eye beyond the present, 
into that period of the future, when the human race shall 
have attained the perfection of civilization, we should 
probably witness a simplicity unsurpassed by anything 
the world has ever seen, in connection with the finer 
works of art. 

The Bunker Hill Monument, which is a mere toy, in 
comparison with similar works of ancient times, was yet 
too vast for the superior intelligence of our people. Had 
it been delayed fifty years longer, it could not have been 
erected. The people of New England are free, and 
colossal architecture is the united work of despotism and 
slavery. As men advance in intelligence and freedom, 
they make art contribute to their comfort, their con- 
venience, and their pleasures ; and the works of archi- 
tecture and sculpture will be constantly growing less and 
less stupendous, the palaces of the. wealthy and noble will 
be less costly, and the dwellings of the common people 
more comfortable aud commodious, as the light of a more 
rational system of Christianity is shed abroad among men. 
Tombs can never again be so magnificent as in the early 
ages, unless mankind should relapse into barbarism. Men 
will think more of nature and less of art, when providing 
memorials and a resting place for the dead. 

The ancients built stupendous tombs, in which the 
dead were piled up without regard to any feeling, except 
perhaps, that of rescuing them from the dust, as if by 
embalming and preserving their bodies, they obtained for 
them the boon of immortality. Now we place the body 
in the grave ; we consign dust to dust ; we restore the 
1* 



6 MOUNT AUBURN. 

remains of our friends to the bosom of tlie earth, and we 
make their mortal part a humble offering to nature, while 
we commend the immortal spirit to the God who gave it. 
The ancients had less distinct ideas of the soul's im- 
mortality, and cherished an inferior amount of tender 
sentiment in connection with the dead. They had no 
love of nature ; since the love of art, for the display of 
art, precedes in the human breast, this more fervent and 
poetic feeling. Hence their tombs, — many specimens 
of which exist on a small scale in every burial ground 
at the present time, — were mostly revolting objects. It 
is now customary to bury the dead in graves, covered 
with the green turf and the wild flowers of the field. 
Men will gradually learn to set less value upon art in 
this connection, and will think more of nature. They 
will learn that the only service we ought to render the 
dead is to secure their remains from desecration in the 
grave, and to provide a simple and durable monument, 
for the record of their virtues, and to serve as the means 
of identifying their place of burial. 



PILGRIM PATH. 

On the left is seen the marble sarcophagus erected in memory of 
Bartholomew Cheever, one of the Pilgrim Fathers, who came to 
America from Canterbury, England, in 1637. On the monument also 
are inscribed the names of some of his descendants and their families. 

On the right is a view of the monuments of S. QuiNcr, J. Shaw, A. 
Rice, and T. Haviland. 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



EUEALBUEIAL. 

" Sustained and soothed 
By an unflattering trust, approacli thy grave, 
Like one that wi'aps the drapery of his couch 
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams." 

All mankind have associated a peculiar sacredness 
witii the pleasant scenes and objects of the natural world, 
and have indulged a hope that when they died, their re- 
mains might be deposited in a grave, under the protection 
of trees and in the bosom of nature. They love to reflect 
that in death they may be surrounded by those objects 
which were agreeable to them in their life-time, that the 
flowers might bloom upon the green turf under which 
they lie, and the birds and insects make melody over 
their graves. Though reason causes us to believe that 
when we are gone to our last repose, we have no con- 
sciousness of our situation — there is something within 
the mind Avhich intimates that the spirit may be hovering 
near, and may even in its heavenly state feel the benign 
influence of nature that breathes around the place where 
its mortal dust is deposited. 

We indulge this sentiment more deeply as It relates to 
the burial of our friends, than in anticipation of our own 
death and burial. We feel a serene satisfaction in know- 
ing that a beloved friend, whose ear can no longer hear 
the words of life, is buried under a green tree, beneath 
whose shade we may resort, when we would offer to the 
dead the tribute of our sorrow to our veneration. The 
trees, the flowers, the still waters, and the green land- 
scape, allied as they are with the themes of poetry, with 
our ideas of heaven, and with the hopes of our immor- 



RURAL BURIAL. 



9 



tality, soften our grief into a tender melancholy, and quiet 
the anxieties of faith. The clouds that gather about the 
western sun shed the glow of heaven upon the gloom of 
the grave, and affect the mind with a deeper realization 
of the promises of religious hope. Every flower that 
springs up from the green turf, in its embossment of 
evergreen mosses, seems like a special messenger of con- 
solation ; and we cannot avoid the reflection that the re- 
mains of our friends repose more quietly in these rural 
shades, and that their spirits are blest by the same objects 
that tranquillize our sorrows. 

As we stroll through the grounds, we read lessons 
which heaven, through nature, conveys to us in many a 
pleasing emblem of light and beauty. The winds repre- 
sent the vicissitudes of life : but they inculcate the lesson 
that there is no adversity that is not followed by the tran- 
quillity of a better day. The floAvers bud and bloom, and, 
in their vernal loveliness, represent the morning of our 
days and the spring-time of our life ; but they perish, like 
our own corporeal fi'ames, to indicate by their revival 
that new life, of which death is but the celestial dawning. 
The trees that spread their branches and extend their be- 
nevolent shade over the graves of our friends, are a man- 
ifestation of that unseen power that has assembled the 
departed spirits under his providential care. 

There is not a more pleasing doctrine of religion than 
that faith which views all material objects as the repre- 
sentations of something more beautiful-and divine existing 
in the spiritual world. To know all that is hereafter to 
be known would unfit the mind for the enjoyment of the 
pleasures we derive from studying the evidences of things 
unseen. A perfect certainty of future bliss must benumb 
that zeal which arises from a consciousness of the neces- 
sity of exertion, in order to obtain the objects of our 



10 MOUNT AUBUKN. 

wishes. Even the enjoyment of the present is greater, 
because we know that our possessions may slip away from 
us ; and we are prompted by this insecurity to continual 
action and watchfulness. From this activity and sus- 
pense, this hope and uncertainty proceed all the zest of 
life. We are not permitted to know the truth of all we 
believe. Imagination presents us glimpses of divine 
truths, which reason will" not allow us to believe with the 
full assurance of a positive faith. Imagination affords us 
these gleams of light to cheer and encourage the ardor 
of hope ; but reason suggests doubts, lest in the full cer- 
tainty of celestial happiness, we should renounce the 
grosser cares of this world, and surrender ourselves en- 
tirely to the future. The benevolence of the Deity does 
not wholly conceal, nor does it fully unfold the most de- 
lightful realities of the heavenly world. 

Hence the different forms and aspects of nature are 
allowed by the Deity, to be the material representations 
of the blessings of another existence. Every object that 
is charmino; to our senses derives half its charm from its 
moral, religious, and emblematical signification. From 
these suggestions of divine things proceed all the poetry, 
the beauty, and the romance of the material world ; and 
the reason why many persons have no passionate love of 
nature is, that they have never learned to interpret these 
emblems that appear on the face of the earth and the 
heavens. The pleasures we derive from the verdure of 
the fields, the pyramidal forms of the trees, the blooming, 
the fading, and the resurrection of flowers, are the pleas- 
ures of a religious and a poetical mind ; and there is not 
a beautiful object in nature that does not borrow its light 
and its loveliness from heaven. 

How Avould the gorp-eous and varied tints and forms of 
the clouds fade upon the imagination, if it perceived in 



RURAL BURIAL. 



11 



them no similitude to the conceptions we have formed of 
celestial glory and beauty, or if these objects never sug- 
gested a thought beyond this mundane world. The 
mind is enabled to extend its thouo;hts further into infin- 
ity by the sight of these radiant hues of sunset, and to 
feel a rapture which is capable of being inspired by no 
other natural scenes. All this proceeds from our habit of 
associating them with our ideas of the soul's immortality, 
with the infinite attributes of the Divine Being, and with 
our hopes of another and a brighter life. 

If an unbeliever derives a similar pleasure from the 
same objects, he too is religious in the midst of his unbe- 
lief. Though his reason does not acknowledge a system 
of theology, he cherishes these fond ideas in his mind as 
pleasing illusions to which he yields a sort of poetic faith. 
The very uncertainty of religious truths renders them 
more dear to our souls, as we cling with greater affection 
to a friend who is absent, and whose fate is involved in 
mystery. The doubtfulness of these points is necessary 
for our contentment with the unsatisfying realities of life 
— a contentment which is needful to the enjoyment of 
our existence. 

Through nature, in her myriad forms of beauty and 
sublimity, has the Deity benevolently given us intima- 
tions of these truths ; and the more we study their forms 
and aspects, the more vivid will be these intimations, and 
the moi'e devoted our faith in the dim but pleasing assur- 
ances which they bring to our minds of the reality of 
what cannot be known, until mortals have become im- 
mortal. It is while animated by these feelings that we 
delight to surround the tombs of our departed friends, 
with all the beautiful objects of nature ; in the fields 
where the sods that cover their graves are full of signifi- 
cant forms — the symbols of life, death and immortality : 



2 MOUNT AUBURX. 

beneath the bhie sky, which is the emblem as well as the 
real image of infinity ; and beneath the clonds, which, 
under their ethereal banners, seem to open the gates of 
heaven to those who are leaving this world. 

One day in the summer of 1850, as I was taking a 
solitary stroll in one of our rural villages, I saw a young 
woman, neatly but plainly attired, sitting upon a knoll, 
under a large tupelo tree, that spread its branches over 
the widening of a small stream in the valley. She had 
evidently been weeping, and had dried her tears on seeing 
me approach. I made an apology for interrupting her, 
and then remarked that the little valley in which we had 
met was remarkably beautiful and almost enchanting. 
" Yes," she replied, " and it is particularly so to me, for 
here my sister, who died three years ago, used to come 
with me often, on pleasant afternoons ; and here we sat, 
sometimes with a book and sometimes with our needle- 
work ; and here we gathered a great number and variety 
of wild flowers, which she pressed with her own hand 
between papers, and gave them a name. Some of the 
names were of her own invention ; but I always call the 
flower by the name she gave it." 

I inquired if her sister was buried here. " She is not," 
she replied, " but here I know, if her spirit dwells near, 
she would delight to have been buried ; and I have trans- 
planted many of these flowers upon her grave and around 
it, taking them up on a trowel with the sods, while they 
are in bloom, and they have seldom failed to come into 
blossom there the followino; seasons. I have often wished 
she was buried here, but in that case, I should not enjoy 
the pleasure of transplanting these flowers on her grave, 
which is in a burial place not far distant." Do you think 
your sister is conscious of these offerings to her memory. 
" I think so ; and this belief is the source of all mv 



RUllAL BURIAL. 13 

present happiness. It is this only that saves me from 
despair. I feel when looking over her preserved flowers, 
and when I am watching the budding and blossoming of 
the flowers upon her grave, that I am in her presence ; 
and it is this reflection that solaces my grief. These 
flowers, and all the objects in this beautiful valley, are 
enibleras to my mind of my sister's life in heaven ; and I 
think more of the flowers that spring up from her grave, 
than I should of the proudest monument that was ever 
carved out of marble." 

Thus memory, as well as poetry and religious senti- 
ment, endears and hallows these natural scenes as the 
proper places for the repose of the dead. Our remem- 
brance of the incidents of their life is intimately associated 
with the grove, the hillside, the path by the river, and 
with other rural walks. In their company have we be- 
come familiar and delighted with these scenes and objects. 
The trees have a sacredness which is due to their alliance 
with the memory of our departed friends ; the flowers are 
the reflection of the smiles of those whom we loved. And 
when we come abroad under the open sky, surrounded by 
these memorials of our friends, in the midst of these ma- 
terial forms of loveliness and beauty, and these emblems 
of our religious faith and our trust in heaven, we do not 
turn away gloomy and desponding ; but sit down with 
full assurances of meeting them again, when the evidence 
of divine truth, which is only emblemized in nature, beams 
upon us in the full blaze of celestial glory. 



14 



MOUNT AUBUllN. 



STANZAS. 



By Rev. C. Wolfe, 



If I had thought thou could'st have died, 

I might not weep for thee, 

But I forgot, when by thy side, 

That thou could' st mortal be ; 

It never through my mind had past, 

The time would e'er be o'er, 

And I on thee should look my last. 

And thou should'st smile no more ! 

And still upon that face I look. 

And think 'twill smile again; 

And still the thought I will not brook, 

That I must look in vain ! 

But when I speak thou dost not say. 

What thou ne'er left'st unsaid ; 

And now I feel, as well I may. 

Sweet Mary, thou art dead ! 



If thou would'st stay, e'en as thou art. 

All cold and all serene, — 

I still might press thy silent heart, 

And where thy smiles have been ! 

While e'en thy chill pale corse I have, 

Thou seemest still mine own ; 

But then I lay thee in thy grave, — 

And I am all alone. 



THE GATEWAY. 

I do not tliink, where'er thou art, 

Thoii hast forgotten me ; 

And I, perhaps, may soothe this breast, 

In thinking, too, of tliee : 

Yet there was round thee such a dawn 

Of light ne'er seen before. 

As fancy never could have drawn, 

And never can restore ! 



15 



THE GATEWAY. 



One of the first objects that would attract the 
stranger's attention, on approaching Mount Auburn, 
is the Egyptian gateway at the principal entrance. It 
is built of granite, and is a very imposing and appropriate 
structure. The cornice with which it is surrounded is 
a single stone, twenty-four feet in height by twelve in 
breadth. It bears the device of a winged globe, which 
is emblematical of divine protection. Underneath is this 
inscription in raised letters : — 

" THEN SHALL THE DUST RETURN TO THE EARTH 

AS IT WAS, AND THE SPIRIT SHALL RETURN 

TO THE GOD THAT GAVE IT." 

MOUNT AUBURN ; 

CONSECRATED SEPTEMBER 24tH, 1831. 

The two lateral buildings contain rooms which are 
used as the offices of the Porter and the Superinten- 
dent. 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



THE CHAPEL. 



The Chapel was erected for the performance of burial 
services in those cases in which the state of the weather, 
or other circumstances connected with the funeral of the 
deceased, might render it necessary or convenient. It 
was designed also to afford a depository for statues and 
other works of sculpture which require protection from 
the weather. This building is also of granite, and is 
situated on a conspicuous elevation, at the right of 
Central Avenue. It is sixty feet by forty in its dimen- 
sions, and its decorations are in the pointed style of 
architecture. 

The wmdows are of colored glass, and in the head of 
the large nave window is an emblematical device, con- 
sisting of a winged female figure reposing in sleep upon 
the clouds, and holding two sleeping infants in her arms. 
It is designed to symbolize the tranquillity of death. 

The rose window in front contains a painted emblem 
of immortality, represented by two cherubs with an up- 
ward and prayerful look of devotion. 



THE DOWSE MONUMENT. 17 



THE DOWSE MONUMENT. 

This monument is on Gentian Path, and consists of a 
simple obelisk of granite. The graves of the different 
members of Mr. Dowse's family are marked by head- 
stones in the same lot. The monument erected to 
Franklin, by Mr. Dowse, is also a granite obelisk, of 
larger dimensions. It bears the following inscription : 

To the memory of Benjamin Franklin, the Printer, the Philosopher, 
the Statesman, the Patriot, "who, by his wisdom, blessed his country 
and his age, and bequeathed to the world an illustrious example of 
industry, integrity, and self-culture. Born in Boston, m dcc vi. Died 
in Philadelphia, m dco xc. 



2* 



18 MOUNT AUBURN. 



HISTORY OF MOUNT AUBURN. 

It appears that the earliest meeting assembled to con- 
sider the project of a Rural Cemetery in the vicinity of 
Boston, was held in November, 1825, at the house and 
by the request of Dr. Jacob Bigelow. The individuals 
who were present on tliis occasion, besides Dr. Bigelow, 
were John Lowell, George Bond, William Sturgis, 
Thomas W. Ward, Samuel P. Gardiner, John Tappan, 
and Nathan Hale. The project met with unanimous 
approval, and Messrs. Bond and Tappan were appointed 
a Committee to make inquiries, and report a suitable 
spot of ground for the purpose. The Committee were 
unsuccessful in their inquiries ; they made no report of 
their proceedings, nor was the subject actively revived 
by the above named persons. 

The next movement was made in 1830, when Dr. 
Bigelow, — who seems to have remained firm in his 
original purpose, — having obtained from George W. 
Brimmer the offer of the grounds known as Sweet Au- 
burn,, for a public Cemetery, at the price of six thousand 
dollars, communicated the fact to the other officers of 
the Massachusetts Horticultural Society, — of .which 
institution he was at that time Corresponding Secre- 
tary, — and engaged their co-operation in an earnest 
effort to accomplish the object of his wishes. A meeting 
of the members of that Society was held on the twenty- 
third of November, by invitation of Dr. Bigelow and 
John C. Gray, to discuss the project of a Cemetery, 
to be connected with an Experimental Garden of the 
Society. A Committee of the Society was appointed, 
consisting of H. A. S. Dearborn, Jacob Bigelow, Ed- 



HISTORY OF MOUNT AUBURN. 19 

ward Everett, George Bond, John C. Gray, Abbott 
Lawrence, and George W. Brimmer. 

These gentlemen called a more general meeting on 
the eighth of June, 1831, to consider the same subject. 
Joseph Story took the Chair, and Edward Everett acted 
as Secretary. Great interest and entire unanimity were 
expressed in regard to the design of the meeting. It was 
also voted to purchase " Sweet Auburn," provided one 
hundred subscribers could be obtained, at sixty dollars 
each. A Committee of twenty was appointed to report 
on a general plan of proceedings proper to be adopted 
for effecting the objects of the meeting. The following 
are the names of the Committee : — Joseph Story, 
Daniel Webster, H. A. S. Dearborn, Charles Lowell, 
Samuel Appleton, Jacob Bigelow, Edward Everett, 
George W. Brimmer, George Bond, A. H. Everett, 
Abbott Lawrence, James T. Austin, Franklin Dexter, 
Joseph P. Bradlee, Charles Tappan, Charles P. Curtis, 
Zebedee Cook, Jr., John Pierpont, Lucius M. Sargent, 
and George W. Pratt. 

An eloquent Report on the general objects of the 
meeting was presented by the Chairman of the pre- 
viously appointed Committee, H. A. S. Dearborn. 

Another meeting was held on the eleventh of June, 
1830, and heard the following Report of the Committee 
of twenty : — 

1. That it is expedient to purchase, for a Garden and 
Cemetery, a tract of land, commonly known by the name 
of Sweet Auburn, near the road leading from Cambridge 
to Watertown, containing about seventy-two acres, for 
the sum of six thousand dollars : provided this sum can 
be raised in the manner proposed in the second article of 
this Report. 



20 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



2. That a subscription be opened for lots of ground 
in the said tract, containing not less than two hundred 
square feet each, at the price of sixty dollars for each 
lot, the subscinption not to be binding until one hundred 
lots are subscribed for. 

3. That when a hundred or more lots are taken, •the 
right of choice shall be disposed of at an auction, of 
which seasonable notice shall be given to the subscribers. 

4. That those subscribers, who do not offer a premium 
for the right of choosing, shall have their lots assigned to 
them by lot. 

5. That the fee of the land shall be A^ested in the 
Massachusetts Horticultural Society, but that the use of 
the lots, agreeably to an Act of the Legislature, respect- 
ing the same, shall be secured to the subscribers, their 
heirs and assigns, forever. 

6. That the land devoted to the purpose of a Cemetery 
shall contain not less than forty acres. 

7. That every subscriber, upon paying for his lot, 
shall become a member, for life, of the Massachusetts 
Horticultural Society, without being subject to assess- 
ments. 

8. That a Garden and Cemetery Committee of nine 
persons shall be chosen annually, first by the subscribers, 
and afterwards by the Horticultural Society, whose duty 
it shall be to cause the necessary surveys and allotments 
to be made, to assign a suitable tract of land for the Gar- 
den of the Society, and to direct all matters appertaining 
to the regulation of the Garden and Cemetery ; five at 
least of this Committee shall be persons having rights in 
the Cemetery. 

9. That the establishment, including the Garden and 
Cemetery, be called by a definite name, to be supplied 
by the Committee. 



HISTORY OF MOUNT AUBURN. 21 

The Society, on this occasion, accepted the Report, 
and authorized the same Committee to proceed in the 
establishment of a Garden and Cemetery, in conformity 
to their Report. 

In June, 1831, the following Act of Incorporation was 
obtained from the Legislature : — 

Commonwealth of Massachusetts. 

In the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred 
and thirty-one. 

An Act, in addition to an Act entitled, " An Act 
to incorporate the Massachusetts Horticultural So- 
ciety." 

Section I. Be it enacted hy the Senate and House of 
Representatives in General Court assembled, and by the 
authority of the same, That the Massachusetts Horticul- 
tural Society be, and hereby are, authorized, in addition 
to the powers already conferred on them, to dedicate and 
appropriate any part of the real estate now owned or 
hereafter to be purchased by them, as and for a Rural 
Cemetery or Burying Ground, and for the erection of 
Tombs, Cenotaphs, or other Monuments, for, or in 
memory of the dead ; and for this purpose, to lay out 
the same in suitable lots or other subdivisions, for family, 
and other burying places ; and to plant and embellish 
the same with shrubbery, flowers, trees, walks, and other 
rural ornaments, and to enclose and divide the same with 
proper walls and enclosures, and to make and annex 
thereto other suitable appendages and conveniences as 
the Society shall, from time to time, deem expedient. 
And whenever the said Society shall so lay out and appro- 
priate any of their real estate for a Cemetery or Burying 
Ground, as aforesaid, the same shall be deemed a per- 
petual dedication thereof for the purposes aforesaid ; and 



22 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



the real estate so dedicated shall be forever held by the 
said Society in trust for such purposes, and for none 
other. And the said Society shall have authority to 
grant and convey to any person or persons the sole and 
exclusive right of burial, and of erecting Tombs, Ceno- 
taphs, and other Monuments, in any such designated lots 
and subdivisions, upon such terms and conditions, and 
subject to such regvdations as the said Society shall, by 
their By-Laws and Regulatioiis, prescribe. And every 
right so granted and conveyed shall be held for the pur- 
poses aforesaid, and for none other, as real estate, by the 
proprietor or proprietors thereof, and shall not be subject 
to attachment or execution. 

Section II. Be it further enacted^ That for the pur- 
poses of this Act, the said Society shall be, and hereby 
are authorized to purchase • and hold any real estate not 
exceeding ten thousand dollars in value, in addition to 
the real estate which they are now, by law, authorized 
to purchase and hold. And to enable the said Society 
more effectually to carry the plan aforesaid into eifect, 
and to provide funds for the same, the said Society shall 
be, and hereby are authorized to open subscription books, 
upon such terms, conditions, and regulations as the said 
Society shall prescribe, which shall be deemed funda- 
mental and perpetual articles between the said Society 
and the subscribers. And eveiy person, who shall be- 
come a subscriber in conformity thereto, shall be deemed 
a member for life of the said Society without the payment 
of any other assessment w^iatsoever, and shall moreover 
be entitled, in fee simple, to the sole and exclusive right 
of using, as a place of burial, and of erecting Tombs, 
Cenotaphs, and other Monuments in such lot or sub- 
division of such Cemetery or Burying Ground, as shall 
in conformity to such fundamental articles be assigned 
to him. 



HISTOllY OF MOUNT AUBURN. 23 

Section III. Be it further enacted., That the Presi- 
dent of the said Society shall have authoi*ity to. call any 
special meeting or meetings of the said Society at such 
time and place as he shall direct, for the purpose of 
carrying into effect any or all the purposes of this Act, 
or any other purposes within the purview of the original 
Act to which this Act is in addition. 

At a meeting of the subscribers held August 3d, 1831, 
it appeared that the subscription had become obligatory, 
according to the program above stated, by the taking of 
a hundred lots. The paper was filled up to a greater 
extent than was either required or expected, — a result 
wliich was mainly attributable to the zealous efforts of 
the late Joseph P. Bradlee, efficiently aided by others. 
The following are the names of the " Garden and Ceme- 
tery Committee " chosen at this meeting : — Joseph 
Story, H. A. S. Dearborn, Jacob Bigelow, E. Everett, 
G. W. Brimmer, George Bond, Charles Wells, Benjamin 
A. Gould, and Georo;e W. Pratt. Arrangements at the 
same time were made for a public religious consecration, 
to be held on the Society's grounds. The topographical 
survey of Mount Aubui'n was performed by Alexander 
Wadsworth, Civil Engineer. 

The consecration of the Cemetery took place on Satur- 
day, September 24th, 1831. A temporary amphitheatre 
was constructed, with seats, in one of the deep valleys 
of the wood, and a platform for the speakers Avas erected 
at the bottom. An audience of nearly two thousand 
persons were seated under the trees on this occasion. 
The order of performances was as follows : — 

1. Instrumental Music, by the Boston Band. 
2. Introductory Prayer, bv the Rev. Dr. Ware. 



24 MOUNT AUBURN. 

3. HYMN, 
Wkitten by the Rev. Mr. Pierpont. 

To tliee, O Goi), in humble trust, 

Our hearts their cheerful incense burn, 

For this thy word, " Thou art of dust, 
And unto dust shalt thou return." 

For, what were life, life's work all done. 
The hopes, joys, loves, that cling to clay, 

All, all departed, one by one. 

And yet life's load borne on for aye ! 

Decay ! Decay ! 'tis stamped on all ! 

All bloom, in flower and flesh, shall fade ; 
Ye whispei'ing trees, when we shall fall. 

Be our long sleep beneath your shade ! 

Here to thy bosom, mother Earth, 

Take back in peace, what thou hast given ; 

And all that is of heavenly birth, 
O God, in peace, recall to Heaven ! 

4. ADDRESS, 

By the Hon. Joseph Story. 

5. Concluding Prayer, by the Rev. Mr. Pierpont. 

6. Music by the Band. 

A cloudless sun and an atmosphere purified by show- 
ers, combined to make the day one of the most delightful 
we ever experience at this season of the year. It is 
unnecessary to say that the address by Judge Story was 



1 



HISTORY OF MOUNT AUBURN. 



25 



pertinent to the occasion, for if the name of the orator 
were not sufficient, the perfect silence of the multitude, 
enablino; him to be heard with distinctness at the most 
distant part of the beautiful amphitheatre in which the 
services were performed, Avould be sufficient testimony as 
to its worth and beauty. Nor is it in the pen's power to 
furnish any adequate description of the effect produced 
by the music of the thousand voices Avhich joined in the 
hymn, as it swelled in chastened melody from the bottom 
of the glen, and, like the spirit of devotion, found an echo 
in eveiy heart, and pervaded the whole scene. 

Some account of Mount Auburn itself, as it existed 
at this stage of its history, may with propriety be here 
introduced. The tract of land which bears this name is 
situated on the southerly side of the main road leading 
from Cambridge to Watertown, partly within the limits 
of both those towns, and distant about four miles from 
Boston. Formerly it was known by the name of Stone's 
Woods, the title to most of the land having remained 
in the family of Stones from an early period after the 
settlement of the country. Mr. Brimmer made purchase 
of the hill and part of the woodlands within a few years, 
chiefly with the view of preventing the destruction of the 
trees, and to his disinterested love of the beautiful in 
nature, may be attributed the preservation of this lovely 
spot. The first purchase of the Society included between 
seventy and eighty acres, extending from the road nearly 
to the banks of Charles River. The Experimental Gar- 
den commenced by the Association was to have been 
upon that portion of the ground next to the road, and 
separated fi-om the Cemetery by a long water-course, 
running between this tract and the interior wood-land. 
The latter is covered, throughout most of its extent, 
3 



26 MOUNT AUBURN. 

with a vigorous growth of forest trees, many of them of 
large size, and comprising an unnsnal variety of kinds. 
This tract is beautifully undulating in its surface, con- 
taining a number of bold eminences, steep acclivities, 
and deep shadowy valleys. A remarkable natural ridge 
with a level surface runs through the ground from 
south-east to north-west, and has for many years been- 
known as a secluded and favorite walk. The principal 
eminence, called Mount Auburn in the plan, is one 
hundred and twenty-five feet above the level of Charles 
River, and commands from its summit one of the finest 
prospects Avhich can be obtained in the environs of Bos- 
ton. On one side is the city in full view, connected at 
its extremities with Charlestown and Roxbury. The 
serpentine course of Charles River, with the cultivated 
hills and fields rising beyond it, and having the Blue 
Hills of Milton in the distance, occupies another portion 
of the landscape. The village of Cambridge, with the 
venerable edifices of Harvard University, are situated 
about a mile to the eastward. On the north, at a very 
small distance. Fresh Pond appears, — a handsome sheet 
of water, finely diversified by its woody and irregular 
shores. Country seats and cottages, seen in various 
directions, and those on the elevated land at Water- 
town, especially, add much to the picturesque effect of 
the scene. 

The grounds of the Cemetery were laid out with 
intersecting avenues, so as to render every part of the* 
wood accessible. These avenues are curved and vari- 
ously winding in their course, so as to be adapted to 
the natural inequalities of tlie surface. By this arrange- 
ment the greatest economy of the land is produced, 
combining at the same time the picturesque effect of 
landscape gardening. Over the more level portions, 



HISTORY OF MOUNT AUBURN. 



27 



the avenues are made twenty feet wide, and are suitable 
for carriage roads. The more broken and precipitous 
parts are approached by foot-paths, which are six feet 
in width. These passage-ways are smoothly gravelled, 
and planted on both sides with flowers and ornamental 
shrubs. Lots of ground (containing each three hundred 
square feet) are set off as family burial-places, at suitable 
distances on the sides of the avenues and paths. 

The nature of the privileges now granted to the pur- 
chasers of these lots, by the proprietors, may be learned 
by reference to the form of conveyance employed. We 
have inserted also the names of the hills, foot-paths and 
avenues, which it was found convenient to adopt. These 
were laid out by a Committee, of which Gen. Dearborn 
Avas Chairman. The Egyptian gatcAvay, which forms 
the chief entrance to the grounds, was designed by Dr. 
Bigelow. 

The first choice of lots was offered for sale, by auction, 
Nov. 28th, 1831 ; the first two hundred being then made 
purchasable to subscribers on the following conditions : 

1. Each lot contains three hundred square feet, exclu- 
sive of ground necessary to fence the same, for which 
sixty dollars are to be paid. 

In addition to said sum of sixty dollars, the sum bid 
for the right of selection is to be paid, and the bidder is 
to decide on the lot he will take at the moment of sale. 

3. If any subscriber be not satisfied with the lot sold 
or assigned to him, he may at any time within six months 
exchange the same for any other among the lots already 
laid out, if any such remain unappropriated. 

4. If any subscriber shall wish to enlarge his lot, the 
Garden and Cemetery Committee may, if they see no 
objection, set off to him land for that purpose, on his 



28 MOUNT AUBUKN. 

paying for the same at the rate of twenty cents per 
square foot. 

5. A receiving tomb is provided in the City, and one 
will be constructed at Mount Auburn, in which, if de- 
sired, bodies may be deposited for a term not exceeding 
six months. 

At this sale, the one hundred and fifty-seven lots pre- 
viously subscribed for, were assigned, at sixty dollars 
each. The amount bid for the right of selection at the 
same time, (from twelve dollars to one hundred dollars, 
each lot,) was 1957.50. 

Mount Auburn, it is generally well known, is now the 
property of a separate and distinct Corporation, having 
no connection with the Horticultural Society. This 
transfer was effected in 1835. 



THE PLEASUEE OF TOMBS. 

By the Abbe de St. Pierke. 

There are no monuments so interesting as the tombs 
of men, and especially those of our ancestors. It is re- 
markable that every nation, in a state of nature, and even 
the greater part of those which are civilized, have made 
the tombs of their forefathers the centre of their devotion, 
and an essential part of their religion. From these, 
however, must be excepted the people, whose fathers ren- 
dered themselves odious to their children by a gloomy 
and severe education. I mean the Southern and West>- 
ern nations of Europe. This religious melancholy is 
diffused throughout every other part of the world. The 
tombs of progenitors, all over China, are among the prin- 
cipal embellishments of the suburbs of their cities, and of 



THE PLEASURE OF TOMBS. 29 

the hills in the country. They form the most powerful 
bonds of patriotic affection among savage nations. When 
the Europeans have sometimes proposed an exchange of 
territory to these people, the reply was : — " Shall we 
say to the bones of our fathers, arise and accompany us 
to a foreign land ? " They always considered this objec- 
tion as insurmountable. 

Tombs have furnislied to the poetical talents of Young 
and Gessner, the most enchanting imagery. Our volup- 
tuaries, who sometimes recur to the sentiments of nature, 
have cenotaphs erected in their gardens. These are not, 
it must be confessed, the tombs of their parents. But 
whence could they have derived this sentiment of fune- 
real melancholy in the very midst of pleasure ? Must it 
not have been from the persuasion, that something still 
svibsists after we are gone ? If a tomb suggested to their 
imagination the idea only of what it is designed to con- 
tain, the thought would shock rather than delight them. 
How terrified most of them are at the thoughts of death ! 
To this physical idea, then, some moral sentiment must 
undoubtedly be attached. The voluptuous melancholy 
resulting from it, arises, like every other attractive sen- 
sation, form the harmony of the two opposite principles ; 
from the sentiment of our fleeting existence, and that of 
our immortality, which unite on beholding the last habi- 
tation of mankind. A tomb is a momcment erected on the 
confines of two worlds. 

It first presents to us the end of the vain disquietudes 
of life, and the image of everlasting repose ; it afterwards 
awakens in us the confused sentiment of a blessed im- 
mortality, the probabilities of which grow stronger and 
stronger, in proportion as the person, whose memory is 
recalled, was a virtuous character. It is then that our 
veneration becomes fixed. And this is so unquestionably 
3* 



30 MOUNT AUBURN. 

true, that though there be no difference between the dust 
of Nero and that of Socrates, no one would grant a place 
in his grove to the remains of the Roman Emperor, 
though they were deposited in a silver urn ; whereas, 
every one would exhibit those of the philosopher, in the 
most honorable apartment of his house, though contained 
only in a vase of clay. 

It is from this intellectual instinct, therefore, in favor 
of virtue, that the tombs of great men inspire us with a 
veneration so affecting. From the same sentiment too, 
it is, that those which contain objects which have been 
lovely, excite so much pleasing regret ; for as we shall 
presently show, the attractions of love arise entirely out 
of the appearances of virtue. Hence it is that we are 
moved by the sight of a little hillock, which covers the 
ashes of an amiable infant, by the recollection of its inno- 
cence ; hence, again, that we are melted into tenderness, 
on contemplating the tomb in which is laid to repose a 
young female, the delight and hope of her family, by 
reason of her virtues. In order to render such monu- 
ments interesting, there is no need of bronze, marble, and 
gilding. The more simple they are, the more energy do 
they communicate to the sentiment of melancholy. They 
produce a more powerful effect when poor rather than 
rich, antique rather than modern, with details of misfor- 
tune rather than with titles of honor, with the attributes 
of virtue rather than those of power. It is in the coun- 
try, principally, that their impression makes itself felt in 
a very lively manner. There a simj)le unadorned grave 
causes more tears to flow than the gaudy splendor of a 
cathedral interment. There it is that OTief assumes sub- 
limity ; it ascends with the aged yews in the churchyard ; 
it extends with the surrounding hills and plains ; it allies 
itself with the effects of nature, with the dawn of the 



I 



THE PLEASURE OF TOMBS. 



31 



morning, the murmuring of the winds, the setting of the 
sun, and the darkness of the night. The most oppressive 
labor and the most degrading humiliation, are incapable 
of extinguishing the impression of this sentiment in the 
breasts of the most miserable of mankind. 

" During the space of two years," says Father Du 
Tertre, " our negro Dominick, after the death of his 
wife, never failed, for a single day, as soon as he returned 
from the place of his employment, to take his little boy 
and girl, and conduct them to the grave of their mother, 
over which he sobbed and wept before them, for more 
than half an hour together, while the poor children fi*e- 
quently caught the infection of his sorrow." What a 
funeral oration for a wife and a mother ! This man, 
however, was nothing but a wretched slave. 

Our artists place statues of marble weeping round the 
tombs of the great. It is very proper to make statues 
weep when men shed no tears. I have been often present 
at the funeral obsequies of the rich ; but rarely have I 
seen any one shedding a tear on such occasions, unless it 
were now and then an aged domestic, who was, perhaps, 
left destitute. Some time ago, happening to pass through 
the unfrequented streets of the Fauxbourg Saint Mar- 
ceau, I perceived a coffin at the door of a house which 
had but a mean look. Close by the coffin was a woman 
on her knees, in earnest prayer to God, and who had all 
the appearance of being absorbed in grief. This poor 
woman having discovered, at the farther end of the 
street, the priests and their attendants coming to carry 
away the body, got upon her feet and hurried away, 
putting her hands to her eyes and crying bitterly. The 
neighbors endeavored to stop her, and administer some 
consolation, but to no purpose. As she passed close by 
me, I took the liberty to ask, if it was the loss of a 



32 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



mother, or of a daughter, that slie lamented so piteously. 
" Alas ! sir," said she to me, the tears gushing down her 
cheeks, " I am mourning the loss of a good lady, who 
procured me the means of earning my poor livelihood ; 
she kept me employed from day to day." I informed 
myself in the neighborhood respecting the condition of 
this benevolent lady, who Avas the wife of a petty joiner. 
Ye people of "wealth, what use do you make of your 
riches during your lifetime, if no tears are shed over 
your graves ? 



PILGKIMS. 



33 



PILGRIMS. 

By Mart Howitt. 

Mid hopes and fears, — from youth to age 
Man goeth on a pilgrimage ; 
Or rich or poor, unlearned or wise, 
Before each one his journey lies ; 
'Tis to a land afar, unknown. 
Yet where the great of old are gone, 
Poet and patriot, sage and seer ; 
All whom we worship or revere. 
This awful pilgrimage have made, — 
Have passed to the dim land of shade. 
Youth with his radiant locks, is there ; 
And old men with their silver hair ; 
And children sportive in their glee ; — 
A strange and countless company. 
Ne'er on that land gazed human eyes ; 
Man's science hath not traced its skies, 
Nor mortal traveller e'er brought back 
Chart of that journey's fearful track. 



Thou art a pilgrim to that shore, — 
Like them thou can'st return no more ! 
Oh, gird thee, for thou needest strength, 
For the way's peril as its length ! 
Oh, faint not by the way nor heed 
Dangers, nor lures, nor check thy speed 
So God be with thee, Pilgrim blest. 
Thou journeyest to the land of Rest. 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



THE MORAL INFLUENCE OF GRAVES. 

The melancholy pleasure which we derive from visit- 
ing a place of burial is common to those who possess an 
ordinary amount of cultivation. There are few persons so 
frivolous as not to be made thoughtful, and few so heart- 
less as not to feel some emotions of humanity, after an 
hour's meditation among the tombs. The cause of the 
pleasure derived from this source, it would be difficult to 
explain, except on the supposition that melancholy, when 
gently excited, is an agreeable sentiment. The grief we 
suifer from the death of a friend, is for many days ex- 
tremely painful, and it is only our veneration for the dead 
that prevents our making a resolute effort to banish the 
subject of it from the mind. This painful grief is not 
very lasting, except in extraordinary cases, or in minds 
predisposed to insanity. As time wears away, it sub- 
sides into a quiet state of the mind, which is the melan- 
choly of the poets, and a very different sentiment from 
that to which the same term is applied by medical writers. 
At this later period, the remembrance of the virtues of our 
departed friend, and of the many happy hours we have 
passed together, forms an agreeable retrospect, which is 
hallowed and made affecting by our subdued sorrow. 

Men in general are not prone to seek those objects tliat 
forcibly suggest the idea of death ; but the contemplation 
of the graves of our fellow beings, produces a pensive state 
of the mind that overcomes our natural horror of death, 
especially Avhen associated with certain fanciful images 
emblematical of peace and immortality. We are more 
agreeably affected in grounds of a simple and rustic ap- 
pearance than in a highly ornamented scene, where the 



THE MORAL INFLUENCE OF GRAVES. 6o 

artificial objects that are placed over the dead remind us 
only of the Avealth or tlie vanity of the living. Peo])le 
are attracted in multitudes to a burial place that is covered 
with gewgaws and expensive follies ; but they go there to 
gratify their curiosity, not to yield up their hearts to medi- 
tation. The emblems of grief and of the relations of 
time and eternity are picturesque and affecting ; those of 
vanity are simply diverting ; and when the works of van- 
ity are conspicuous among the tombs, the visitor, while 
examining the several objects which are before him, for- 
gets the character of the place, and feels only that idle 
interest that leads one passively along among the objects 
of a museum. A cemetery is the last place in the world 
that ought to be made a scene of any such idle diversion. 
Neither ought these grounds to be made a place for 
general recreation. The idea of connecting them with a 
public garden was unwise, and were proved inexpedient. 
If our citizens feel the want of a place for rural recrea- 
tion, where they can employ themselves in cheerful 
festivities, and enjoy the beauties of nature, they should 
purchase a pleasant and extensive tract of pasture and 
woodland, and devote it to these purposes. But a place of 
burial should be consecrated to sorrow and meditation, 
and to that religion which offers consolation to those who 
are laden Avith grief. No merry-making or idle and 
thoughtless amusement should ever desecrate this spot, 
which has been made holy by the sad and solenm pur- 
pose to which it is devoted ; and the flowers and the 
landscape should be made to smile and look beautiful 
around it, not to render it a scene of pleasure, but that it 
may seem more closely allied to heaven. 

To these consecrated grounds we would resort as Ave 
attend service in the house of God, to indulge in serious 
meditation, and to ponder on those themes which are 



36 MOUNT AUBURN. 

neglected by the niultitnde, during tlie hurry of business 
or in the idle whirl of pleasure. We come here not to be 
saddened, but to be sobered ; to think more earnestly of 
the higher purposes of life, of its transient duration, and 
of the importance of neglecting no duty of religion, char- 
ity, or benevolence, which would be profitable to our- 
selves, or render us more useful to our fellow creatures. 
We need not be the disciples of a theological faith to feel 
the truth of these remarks, or to miderstand the benefit 
we derive from scenes that tend to conquer an excess of 
frivolity, or to moderate that entire devotion to mammon 
which, like intemperance and vice, has ruined many a 
noble heart. Many a mind is destitute of philosophy be- 
cause it has not been tramed in a school of wisdom ; and 
many a soul is destitute of virtue, because the multiplied 
cares of fortune and ambition crowd out every thought of 
other things. Hence the chastening influence of the loss 
of friends. Grief is often the fountain head of virtue and 
of poetic enthusiasm ; and he who is unacquainted with 
it, is too apt to lead a life that is entirely selfish and pro- 
saic. Yet if one has suffered no such bereavement, an 
occasional visit to the graves of those whom he has once 
known, must affect him with a deeper sentiment of relig- 
ion and virtue. 

To a mourner who has never been inspired with a love 
of nature, the rural cemetery may present a new gospel 
of consolation. If he be a religious man, his observations 
in this place may confirm his trust in the beneficence of 
the Deity, and his faith in the soul's immortality. There 
is something associated with the grave of a fellow being 
that must impress the most unreflecting mind with 
thoughts that do not occur to him in the common cir- 
cumstances of life. There comes up from these green 
mounds, and from the sad and beautiful things around 



THE MORAL INFLUENCE OF GRAVES. 3T 

them, an impression of subdued melancholy, allied with 
the sentiment of a new existence, which is the consola- 
tion and a part of the happiness of those who have buried 
their friends, Avhich prepares the selfish for a full exercise 
of benevolence, and leads the thoughtless to meditation. 
A rural cemetery is a school both of religion and phi- 
losophy. 

It is in great measure our love of virtue, and our 
proneness to remember exclusively the good deeds of 
departed friends whom we loved, that prompt us to visit 
a place of burial. When Ave are strolling among its 
scenes, the virtues of the dead form the principal subject 
of our thoughts and of our discourse, and we carefully 
banish the remembrance of those failings which Avould 
tend to diminish our reverence for the dead. This habit, 
often indulged, acts reciprocally upon the mind, in fos- 
tering a greater love of virtue and an ambition to be 
worthy, after our death, of the same veneration which we 
feel for the good Avho are in their graves. A respect for 
the dead cannot exist apart from our respect for virtue. 
We wish, as it were, to deify the spirits of the departed ; 
and we can approximate to this idea only by attributing 
to them the possession of extraordinary goodness. If the 
virtuous and redeeming traits of their character be not 
sufficient to hide by their lustre the faults or vices that 
belono-ed to them, we soon cease to cherish them in our 
remembrance. 

Thus as time passes away, those who had but few 
virtues ai'e gradually forgotten, and sink into oblivion, 
while the remembrance of those who were known for 
their benevolent and amiable qualities is always growing 
brighter. Hence the cemetery becomes, at length, the 
seeming depository of the remains only of the good. As 
we cannot by sumptuous marble confer immortality upon 
4 



38 MOUNT AUBURN. " 

one who has performed no deeds of greatness ; neither can 
those be long remembered even by then' own friends, who 
in their hfetime rendered no service to their fellow men. 
The names only of the good and the just awaken in our 
souls any emotion of reverence ; but these seem to be in 
alliance with beings of a divine nature, and every thought 
we bestow upon them plants a seed of virtue in our 
breasts, that gradually ripens into some moral excellence 
in our own character. 

It is the duty of all persons, therefore, in order to ren- 
der the cemetery more entirely a school of virtue, to be 
true to justice and morality, in the honors which they 
bestow upon the dead. Let no one who has lived a de- 
praved or a selfish life, how conspicuous soever the posi- 
tion he may have occupied, be exalted by honors that 
should be paid only to the good, or by a tribute of false 
praise recorded upon his tomb. Neither let private and 
humble virtue be paraded before the world with an osten- 
tation that would turn every spectator into a skeptic of its 
reality. Humble Aartue is always dishonored by an osten- 
tatious monument. 



LIFE AND DEATH. 



LIFE AKD DEATH 

By Florence. 



39 



Whence are ye, fearful ones ? Speak forth ! Reply ! 
'Twas thus my spirit's deep and earnest cry 
Went up. The midnight's burning fever wrought 
Its fiery shadows with each swelling thought ; 
And proud and high amid the darkened night, 
My voiceless cry went forth, for light — for light ! 

I asked — of life, whence came the peerless gift 
That gives to senseless clay a power to lift 
Itself in burning dreams unto the skies ? 
How genius looked from wildly beaming eyes. 
Upon the still, and dark, and dreamless earth. 
On which we live, and move, and have our birth ? 

I bade the winds, the stars, the earth reply, 

If that which thinks and wills can ever die ? 

And to what bourne the gift returned, which here 

But shone, a transient ray, to disappear ? 

And winds, and stars, and earth, gave answer back 

But this — " Thou canst not know its hidden track ! " 

I spoke to death and to eternity. 

As to a spirit conjured up for me. 

By that prevailing cry, and bade them say 

If that which lives and loves, can know decay ? 

Or if this feverish thirst, this strong wild strife 

For that we seek, but seek in vain, is life ? 



40 MOUNT AUBURN. 

Love, sorrowing love, bereaved and lone, 

Love from which kindred love had flown, 

Looked sadly up, and asked if all was o'er ; — 

If they who meet on earth, shall meet no more ; — 

If but this brief companionship in woe. 

Was all that life or love on earth might know ? 

I importuned the grave, as with a friend. 

Beseeching it but once its veil to rend, — 

To tell me why, with such o'erwhelming strife, 

It even trod upon the steps of life ? 

And death, eternity, the grave, replied, 

" We have no voice for doubt, thou child of pride." 

My baffled spirit bowed in anguish low, — 
The victim of a doom it could not know : 
Above, beneath, without a mark or bound, 
Was space, illimitable, dark, profound : — 
And in the agony of struggling powers, 
It asked why such a mockery was ours ? 

Then came a low, sweet voice, like music sent 

Upon the dark abyss, where storms had spent 

Their wrath, — 'Twas thine, meek Faith, and thus it 

spoke. 
Stilling the deep Avhose waves so wildly broke ; — 
" Trust thou in Heavenly Love : the power which 

gave 
Thee life, can lift from doubt, and from the grave." 







iiiiiki «r\AH<P 



THE ADAMS MONUMENT. 

This is an elegant monument of pure white marble, situated on 
Spruce Avenue, and erected by Alvin Adams. 

4* 



42 MOUNT AUBURN. 

SEPULCHRAL MONUMENTS OP THE MIDDLE AGES. 

(Compiled.) 

The earHest tombs found in Great Britain, which can 
be considered as at aH of an architectural character, are 
the stone coffins of the eleventh and twelfth centuries. 
The covers of these were at first simply coped ; after- 
wards frequently ornamented with crosses of various 
kinds, and other devices, and sometimes with inscrip- 
tions. Subsequently, they were sculptured with recum- 
bent figures in high relief ; but still generally diminishing 
in width from the head to the feet, to fit the coffins, of 
which they formed the lids. Many of the figures of this 
period represent knights in armor, with their legs crossed. 
These are supposed to have been either Templars, or 
such as had joined, or vowed to join, in a crusade to the 
Holy Land. These figures usually had canopies, which 
were often richly carved over the heads, supported on 
small shafts, wliich ran along each side of the effigy, the 
whole worked in the same block of stone. This kind of 
tomb was sometimes placed beneath low arches or re- 
cesses, formed within the substance of the church M'all, 
usually about seven feet in length, and not more than 
three high above the coffin, even in the centre ; these 
arches were at first semicircular or segmental at the top, 
afterwards obtusely pointed. They often remain when 
the figure, or brass, and perhaps the coffin itself, has long 
disappeared and been forgotten. On many tombs of the 
thirteenth century, there are plain pediment-shaped cano- 
pies over the heads of the recumbent effigies, the earliest 
of which contain a pointed, trefoliated arched recess. 
Towards the end of the century, these canopies became 
gradually enriched with crockets, finials, and other archi- 
tectural ornaments. 



MONUMENTS OF THE MIDDLE AGES. 43 

The most of the monuments of the middle ages were 
erected soon after the death of the persons whom they 
commemorate ; but in some instances, the parties buried 
in them, prepared them during their lifetime. These 
were frequently the wealthy ecclesiastics. There are 
but few existing monuments which are earlier than the 
twelfth century. In the reign of Edward I., the tombs 
of persons of rank began to be ornamented on the sides 
with armorial bearings, and small sculptured statues, 
within pedimental canopied recesses ; and from these we 
may progressively trace the peculiar minutiae and en- 
richments of every style of ecclesiastical architecture, up 
to the Reformation. 

Altar, or table tombs, called by Leland " high tombs," 
with recumbent effigies, were common during the whole 
of the fourteenth century. These sometimes appear 
beneath splendid pyramidal canopies, and sometimes 
beneath flat testoons. In the early part of the same 
century, the custom prevailed of inlaying flat stones with 
brasses, and monumental inscriptions frequently occur. 
The sides of these tombs are sometimes relieved with 
niches, surmounted with decorated pediments, each con- 
taining a small sculptured figure ; sometimes with arched 
panels filled with tracery. Other tombs, about the same 
period, but more frequently in the fifteenth century, were 
decorated along the sides with large, square, panelled 
compartments, richly foliated or quatrefoiled, and con- 
taining shields. 

Many of the tombs of the fifteenth and sixteenth centu- 
ries appear beneath arched recesses, fixed in, or project- 
ing from the wall, and inclosing the tomb on three sides ; 
these were constructed so as to form canopies, which are 
often of the most elaborate and costly workmanship. 
These canopies were sometimes of elaborately carved 



44: MOUNT AUBURN. 

wood, and sometimes tlie altar tomb of an earlier date 
was at a later period inclosed within a screen of open 
work, with a groined stone canopy, and an upper story 
of wood, forming a mortuary chapel or chantry. 

In the early part of the sixteenth century, the monu- 
ments were generally of a similar character to those of 
the preceding age ; but alabaster slabs, with figures on 
them, cut in outline, Avere frequently used. Tlie altar 
tombs, with figures in niches, carved in bold relief, Avere 
also frequently of alabaster, which was extensively 
quarried in Derbyshire. The Italian syle of funereal 
architecture soon came into general use, and was often 
mixed with the old style. In the two following centuries 
every sort of barbarism was introduced on funereal mon- 
uments ; but the ancient style lingered longer in some 
places than in others. 

The fashion of representing on tombs the effigy of the 
deceased graven on a plate of brass, which was imbedded 
in melted pitch, and firmly fastened down by rivets 
leaded into a slab of Purbeck marble, appears to have 
been adopted about the middle of the thirteenth century. 
These memorials, where circumstances permitted, were 
often elevated upon altar tombs ; but moi'e commonly 
they are found on slabs which form part of the pavement 
of churches ; and it is not improbable that this kind of 
memorial was generally adopted for convenience, that the 
area of the church, and especially the choir, might not 
be encumbered, as was the case when effigies in relief 
were introduced. 

The sepulchral brass, in its original and perfect state, 
was a work rich and beautiful in decoration. It is by 
careful examination sufficiently evident that the incised 
lines were filled up with some black resinous substance ; 
the armorial decoiations, and in elaborate specimens, the 



MONUMENTS OF THE MIDDLE AGES. 45 

whole field or background, wliicli was cut out by the 
chisel or scorper, were filled up with mastic or coarse 
enamel of various colors, so as to set off the elegant 
tracery of tabernacle work which forms the principal 
feature of ornament. 

In England it was usual, with few exceptions, to inlay 
on the face of the slab, the figure and the difterent orna- 
ments, arms, and inscriptions, graven on detached plates 
in distinct cavities, which seem to have been termed case- 
ments ; so that the polished slab was left as the field or 
background. On the continent, possibly, in consequence 
of the brass plate being more readily obtained, the fashion 
was different. One large, unbroken surface of metal was 
obtained, formed of a number of plates, soldered together, 
and upon this surface all parts that were not occupied 
by the figure, or the shrine work around it, were en- 
riched by elaborate diapering, usually armorial, the design 
beino; sometimes arransred lozeno-e-wise. Brasses of this 
more costly kind exist in England, but all hitherto 
observed are of Flemish workmanship. It may be 
remarked that the barbarous custom of usino- old srave- 
stones, when they happened to be convenient, is to be 
found in early times as well as late ; and monumental 
brasses do not appear to have been exempt from the same 
fate, as older inscriptions may frequently be found on 
the back of them. The author of Piers Plowman's Creed 
taxes the friars with this practice, that they might make 
room for other tombs, and get more fees. The fashion 
of sepulchral brasses continued for more than four cen- 
turies. A remarkable specimen of the latest works of this 
description is the full-sized effigy of Samuel Harswult, 
Archbishop of York, at Chigwell, Essex. He died in 
1631. On the continent the engraving of sepulchral 
brasses has, in later times, been resumed ; a noble brass 



46 MOUNT AUBURN. 

of full size having been engraved in 1837, at Cologne, as 
the memorial of the late Archbishop. In England, like- 
wise, a revival of the art has recently taken place, and 
several brasses of good character have been executed. 

It is to the continent that we must turn to seek the 
origin of sepulchral brasses, and it may be traced with 
little hesitation to the early enamelled works in France, 
chiefly produced at Limoges. This art was introduced, 
most probably, by Oriental or Byzantine artists, and as 
early as the twelfth century, the " opus de Limogia " 
was celebrated in southern Europe. Of the larger works 
of this kind scarcely any specimens have escaped. The 
costly tombs, with efiigies of metal enamelled, which, 
prior to the revolution, were seen in many cathedrals 
in France, were all converted into cannon and copper 
coin. 

" Most of the earlier brasses are lost, and it is lamenta- 
ble to reflect upon the causes of their destruction, having 
been produced either by puritanical afi^ectation or by theft. 
The value of the metal was a temptation to sacrilegious 
robbery ; the brasses were with little difficulty torn up, 
and in times of disturbance these were removed, the 
places they occupied being now alone remaining to us, 
and giving simply the outline of their figure : 

" ' — dark fanaticism rent 



Altar, and screen, and ornament.' 

" How short-sighted is man ! The means adopted by 
him to secure posthumous reputation, by the employment 
of the valuable metals, in the construction of tombs and 
sepulchral memorials, have only served to stimulate the 
cupidity of others, and occasion their removal. Thus 
have the names of many highly, and perhaps deservedly 
celebrated in their day, passed into oblivion ! " 



THE GRAVE AND THE TOMB. 47 

THE GRAVE AND THE TOMB. 

By John Pierpoxt. 

The tomb is not so interesting as the grave. It savors 
of pride in those who can now he proud no longer ; of 
distinction, where aH are equal ; of a feehng of eminence 
even under the hand of the great leveUer of aH our dust. 
And how useless to us are all the ensigns of magnificence 
that can be piled up above our bed ! What though a 
sepulchral lamp throw its light up to the princely vaults 
under which my remains repose ! They would rest as 
quietly Avere there no lamp there. The sleeping dust 
fears nothing. No dreams disturb it. It would not 
mark the neglect, should the sepulchral lamp be suffered 
to expire. It will not complain of the neglect, should it 
never be lighted again. 

And why should my cold clay be imprisoned with so 
much care ? Why thus immured, to keep it, as it would 
seem, from mingling with its kindred clay ? When " that 
which warmed it once " animates it no more, what is 
there in my dust, that it should be thus jealously guarded ? 
Is it lovely now in the eyes of those who may have once 
loved me? Will my children, or the children of my 
children, visit my vaulted chamber ? They may, indeed, 
summon the courage to descend into my still abode, and 
gaze by torch-light upon the black and mouldering visage, 
which, not their memory, but my escutcheon, not their 
love, but their pride, may tell them is the face of their 
father ; and this may eloquently remind them how soon 
the bviilder of the house of death must take up his abode 
in it ; how soon the dust that we have, must mingle with 
the dust that we are ; but still there is a feelino; of horror 



48 MOUNT AUBURN. 

in the atmos])liere of the tomb, wliich chills all that is 
affectionate and tencka- in the emotions that lead them 
into it, and is anything but favorable to the moral uses 
to which the living may convert the dwellings of the 
dead ; uses that -will be secured by every daughter of 
affliction, of whom it may be said, as it was said of the 
sorrowing Mary, " She goeth unto the grave to weep 
there." Yes ; though all whom I have loved or ven- 
erated sleep within its walls, I retreat from the tomb, the 
moment that I can do it without impiety, or even with 
decency. But I am differently affected when, with the 
rising sun, or by the light of the melancholy moon, I go 
alone to my mother's grave. There I love to linger ; 
and, while there, I hear the wind sigh over one who 
often sighed for me. I breathe an air refreshed bv the 
grass that draws its strength from the bosom from which 
I drew mine ; and, in the drops of dew that tremble upon 
it, I see the tears that so often bedewed her eyes as she 
breathed forth a prayer that her children might cherish 
her memory, and escape from the pollutions of the world. 
Yes ; to the lover of nature, in its simplicity, the grave 
is more interesting and more instructive than the tomb. 
It speaks in a voice as full of truth, and more full of ten- 
derness, to those who visit it to indulge their griefs, or to 
hold spiritual converse with the sainted spirits that are 
gone. And if the spirit that, while on earth, was loved 
by us, does not, when it leaves the earth, lose all interest 
in its crumbling tenement, Avould it not rather see the 
child of earth clasped again to the sweet bosom of its 
mother, to be again incorporated with her substance, to 
assume again a form attractive and lovely, to become 
again the recipient of light, an object of admiration, and 
a conscious medium of enjoyment, than that it should lie 
and moulder away in darkness and silence — a cause of 



THE GRAVE AND THE TOMB. 49 

offence to strangers, and a source of terror to those whom 
it still loves ? Rather than see our own clay thus dwell- 
ing in coldness and solitude, neither receiving enjoyment 
nor imparting it, would not our spirits, purged from all 
vanity and pride, be pleased to know that it was starting 
forth again into life and loveliness ; that it was moving 
again in the fair light of heaven, and bathed in its 
showers ; that it was giving forth the perfume of the 
rose, or blushing with its great beauty ; or, that, having 
clothed the oak with its robe of summer, it was throwing 
a broad shade over the home of our children ; or that, 
having once more felt the frost of death, it was falling 
withered upon their graves. 

The grave, when visited thoughtfully and alone, cannot 
but exert a favorable moral influence. It has already 
been remarked that it speaks in a voice full of tender- 
ness and of truth. Its instructions reach not the ear, 
indeed, but they do reach the heart. By it, the departed 
friend is recalled in all but a visible presence, and by it, 
" he, being dead, yet speaketh." At such a time, how 
faithfully will the grave of your friend remind you of the 
pleasant moments when you were conversing with him 
in the living tones of affection and truth ! when you 
were opening your hearts to each other, and becoming 
partakers, each of the other's hopes and purposes and 
cares ; when with a generous confidence those secret 
things were shown to one another, which were locked up 
in the heart from all the world beside ! Will the grave 
of your friend allow you to forget his single-heartedness 
in serving you ; his unsullied honor ; his plighted faith ; 
his readiness to expose himself to danger that he might 
save yovT from it ; and the calmness with wdiich, Avhen 
he perceived that his hold on life was breaking away, he 
gave up life's hopes, and, turning his eyes for the last 



50 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



time to the light, and looking np, for the last time, to the 
faces of those Avho loved him, he bade farewell to all, and 
gave up his spirit to the disposal of his God ? Is all this 
forgotten, when yon stand by his grave ? Does not his 
very grave speak to yon ? Does it not bear its testimony 
to the value of youthful purity and truth, and of the 
power of an humble confidence in the Most High, to give 
dignity to the character of the young, and to disarm 
Death of the most dreadful of his weapons, even when 
he comes for his most dreadful work — to cut off life in 
the beauty of its morning ? Does there not come up 
from his grave a voice, like that which comes down from 
the skies — a voice not meant for the ear, but addressed 
to the heart, and felt by the heart as the kindest and 
most serious tones of the living friend were never felt ? 

And the cliildren of sorrow — they whose hands have 
prepared a resting place for their parents in the " Garden 
of Graves," shall go to that garden and find that their 
hearts are made better by offering there the sacrifice of 
filial piety, or by listening there to the rebuke which a 
guilty ear will hear coming forth from the dust. The 
leaf that rustles on his father's grave shall tell the un- 
dutiful son of disquiet sleep beneath it. The gray hairs 
of his father went down to the grave, not in sorrow alone, 
but in shame. The follies of his son made them thus go 
down. Son of disobedience, that tall grass, sighing over 
thy father's dust, whispers a rebuke to thee. It speaks 
of thy waywardness w^ien a child ; of thy want of filial 
reverence in maturer years ; of thy contempt for a pa- 
rent's counsels ; and of thy disregard of his feelings, his 
infirmities, and his prayers. It will be well for thee if 
the grave, by its rebuke, shall so chasten thee for thine 
iniquity, that thine own soul, when called away, may 
meet thy father and thy God in peace. 



THE GRAVE AND THE TOMB. 



61 



How different is the language of thy father's grave to 
thee, my brother. Does it not recall the many hours to 
thy remembrance, which were given to his service ? 
Were not his thin locks decently composed, in death, by 
thine own hand ? Did not his dim eye turn to thee in 
" the inevitable hour " as to the pleasant light of the sun ? 
Did he not, with his last grasp, take hold of thy hand, 
and did not his pressure of thy hand tell thee, when his 
tongue could not, that it was that which had upheld and 
comforted him in his decaying strength ; and was it not 
his last prayer that thou mightest be blest in thy own 
children as he had been blest in his ? He has gone to 
his rest and his reward. But his sepulchre is green, and 
at thy coming, though it gives him not to thy embrace, 
it restores him to thy grateful remembrance. His coun- 
sels are again addressed to thine ear. His upright life is 
still before thine eye. His devotion to thine own highest 
interests sinks down, with new Aveight, into the depths of 
thy heart. Thou catchest again the religious tones of 
his morning and evening prayer. They speak of peace 
to the venerated dead. They are full of hope and con- 
solation to the living. They tell how " blessed are the 
dead that die in the Lord," how sweetly " they rest from 
their labors," and how happy it is for them that " their 
works do follow them." 

And thou, my sister, why dost thou go forth aloue to 
visit thy mother's grave ? Will she recognize thy foot- 
fall at the door of her narrow house ? Will she give thee 
a mother's welcome, and a mother's blessing? Her 
blessing shall indeed meet thee there, though not her 
welcome ; for there shall gather round thee the sacred 
remembrances of her care and her love for thee ; the re- 
membrance of her gentle admonitions, her patience and 
faithfulness ; of her spirit of forbearance and meekness 



52 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



under provocation, and of that ever wakeful principle of 
industry, neatness and order, which always made her 
home so pleasant to those whom she loved ; and there 
shall visit thee, like one of the spirits of the blest, the 
thought of her own blessed spirit, as it rose in fervent 
prayers for the welfare and salvation of those who were 
given to her charge. She will speak to thee there, again, 
as she often spoke in life, of the hour that is coming, 
when thou, who didst once sleep upon her bosom, shalt 
sleep by her side, being gathered to the great congrega- 
tion of the dead. She will speak to thee, from her grave, 
of the worth of innocence, of the importance of chasten- 
ing the extravagance of thy young hopes, and of looking 
thoughtfully and seriously upon the world as a scene of 
trying duties and severe temptations, of the countless 
evils that join hand in hand and follow on in the train of 
a single folly, and of the momentous bearing of thy 
present course upon thy peace in this life, and upon tliy 
condition when thy dust shall be mingling with hers. 
Then, 

" Let Vanity adorn the marble tomb 

With trophies, rhymes, and scutcheons of renown, 
In the deep dungeon of some gothic dome. 

Where night and desolation ever frown. 
Mine be the breezy hill that skirts the down, 
• Where a green grassy tvirf is all I crave, 
With here and there a violet bestrown, 

Fast by a brook, or fountain's murmuring wave : 
And many an evening smi shine sweetly on my grave." 



THE BINNEY MONUMENT. 

This monument is situated on Yarrow Path, and the figure upon it is 
an accurate likeness of the child it is intended to represent. It was ex- 
ecuted by Henry Dexter, being taken as the child was lying on her 
pallet, after death. The hands are crossed upon the breast, and the feet 
bare, and likewise crossed. The marble upon which this infant figure 
reposes, is surrounded by four small columns, supjjorting a slab, on 
■which is an urn. This monument contains the first marble statue ex- 
ecuted in Boston, and stands in the lot of C. J. F. Binney, of Boston. 
The sculptured figure has been lately surrounded by a glass case. 



5* 



54 MOUNT AUBURN. 



FLOWERS AROUND GRAVES. 

Flowers have been reo;arcled in all ages as the most 
appropriate ornaments of a burial place, and have always 
been strewed upon the bier and grave of a friend, as the 
most significant offerings of affection. So many tender 
recollections of flowers are linked with the memory of 
a beloved friend who has departed from us, that when 
we see them springing up from a new^-made grave, the 
image of the dead is brought vividly before the mind, 
and while our sorrows are revived, they are soothed and 
tranquillized. Flowers are particularly suggestive of the 
interesting events in the life of a little child. So often 
has a cluster of wild flowers been the occasion of some 
of its happiest moments, that the smiles of the living 
child, and their forms and colors are closely allied ; and 
when we see them adorning the grave of the little slum- 
berer, we feel that its spirit must be more blessed in 
heaven. The mother who has lost a child is prompted 
by this sentiment to strew flowers on the grave of the 
buried one, that its young spirit may see the evidence 
of the mother's love and the mother's grief, and derive 
from them the same pleasure which they afforded in its 
lifetime. But when a flower comes up spontaneously 
on the little grassy mound, it seems to the disconsolate 
mother like a tribute of affection from the dead to the 
living. 

It is so common to eulogize flowers- as the accom- 
paniments of graves — emblematical as they are of our 
immortality, and of those virtues which prepare us for 
the company of higher beings — that we are prone to 
believe that too many of them cannot be introduced into 



FLOWERS AROUND GRAVES. 



55 



a rural cemetery. In accordance with this idea, we see 
thera planted not only around graves, but reared so pro- 
fusely in borders and parterres, that visitors sometimes for- 
get to observe anything but these dazzling horticultural 
exhibitions. In admitting this profusion, not all persons 
are aware that they destroy the poetic expression of the 
flowers. A single violet appearing on the rising mound 
of a grave, in a country churchyard, never fails to im- 
press the beholder with a pleasing sentiment. It is a 
talisman that awakens a crowd of delightful images. 
But it is doubtful whether any such effect would be 
produced by a glittering row of petunias, pinks, and cal- 
ceolarias in a spaded border near the grave. Their 
charm is lost in their profusion. Such a display is worse 
than a blank, because it destroys the effect of the little 
azure tufts of violets, that have come up spontaneously 
on the green mound. 

A friend, who was far from being a sentimentalist, 
once showed me, with melancholy delight, a little flower 
of the white-weed, that had blossomed upon the neAV- 
made grave of an infant son. He said but few words on 
the occasion, but I could perceive that he set a high 
value upon the flower that seemed to him, undoubtedly, 
like a free offering of nature, who, with unseen hand, had 
reared it upon the grave, to memorialize the innocence 
of the child, who had been thus prematurely seized by 
death. I have no doubt that he derived more pleasure 
fi'om this single flower than he would from a greater 
number. Its solitary chai'acter caused it to be more 
readily identified with the lost infant. When rambling 
in a wood, we stop to admire a solitary geranium, under 
the shadow of a broad-leaved fern, while we take no 
notice of the gaudv millions of flowers that grow in the 
open field. 



56 MOUNT AUBURN. 

After the burial of a friend, were a little wood-sparrow 
to perch daily on a bush by the side of his grave, and 
sing there his morning and evening lays, we should be 
delighted with this spontaneous tribute to the memory 
of the dead. Should any one, taking a hint from this 
romantic incident, carry out a canary bird, and hang its 
case on the branch of a tree that extended over the 
grave of a friend, that it might, like the wild bird, sing 
the requiem of the departed, the effect would be more 
ludicrous than poetical. Aifection, that loves to see the 
dead surrounded with images borrowed from nature and 
the skies, cannot be thus cheated by its own artifices. 

There is a very simple and practicable method by 
which flowers might be made to grow upon a new-made 
grave, without resorting to cultivation. This is to procure 
the turfs that are to be placed upon the surface of the 
mound, from some Avild pasture that is sprinkled with 
violets, anemones, columbines, and other flowers, which 
are not too rank in their growth to injure the smooth 
appearance of the turf. The little wildings of the wood 
and the pasture are the evidence that Ave are in the pres- 
ence of nature. We feel, while we behold them unmixed 
with the artificial flowers of the florist, that we are 
treading upon nature's own ground, and we are led to 
pleasing meditations, which the scenes of a voluptuous 
flower garden could never inspire. There is an emotion 
of cheerful solitude felt in the midst of a field of wild 
flowers, that causes it to seem to a religious mind, the 
intermediate ground between the busy world of man and 
the world of spirits ; and I am persuaded that the charm 
of some of our old graveyards is intimately connected 
with this sentiment. 

In a garden we look for beauty ; and we are satisfied 
if our eyes are affected with the voluptuous sensations 



FLOWERS AROUND GRAVES. 57 

that spring from brilliant forms and colors. In a grave- 
yard, on the contrary, we Avish to give ourselves up to 
tender sentiments and emotions, which are more sensibly 
awakened by the simple wild flowers. The blue violet 
and the little golden-eyed cinquefoil carry back the 
memory to times of companionship with the dear friends 
whom we have buried, and carry forward our hopes to 
a probable re-union with them in a happier land. The 
showy flowers, that are cultivated in the borders of some 
of our cemeteries, do not harmonize with the solemnity 
of the grave, nor offer any solace to a wounded heart. 
Did we look upon a cemetery as a mere flower garden, 
we should pause with delight to contemplate the brilliant 
forms and colors that sreet the sio;ht. But amid the 
scenes of a graveyard, we are affected by these displays 
as we should be afi'ected by gaudy pictures of butterflies 
on a magnificent Doric pillar of marble. 

These remarks are not designed to condemn flowers as 
the ornaments of the grave, but to discourage their pro- 
fusion, and to recommend the spontaneous wildings of 
nature, rather than the cai'eful products of art and culti- 
vation. Wild flowers are more poetical than those of 
the florist, which always suggest the idea of art, and of 
somethino; that is to be bought and sold. Thus a wild 
rose would be more pleasing than a garden rose, as an 
ornament of a grave, because the former is a literal pro- 
duction of nature, while the latter is associated with 
the wreaths and bouquets of a confectionary store. Let 
the cultivators of the grounds, therefore, be advised care- 
fully to preserve all the simple and beautiful Avild flowers, 
and those conditions of the soil which are promotive of 
their growth, that nature may not be thwarted in her 
spontaneous efforts to cover the grave with beauty, as 
she covers the pasture and the solitary haunts of the 
birds. 



58 MOUNT AUBURN. 

Tins principle in our nature that causes the effect 
which is produced by a single object to be lost when a 
nniltitude of similar objects are presented to the mind, 
is illustrated in the works of the painters as well as in 
the works of nature. In the delineations of life there 
must be a confinement of the design to one or two in- 
dividuals. Crowd together in the picture of a cottage a 
large number of poor people who are so interesting in a 
single group, and the scene is not affecting. We can 
easily identify ourselves with a single family, and easily 
go along with them in their pleasures, their wants, and 
their sorrows. But we cannot sympathize with a crowd ; 
w^e cannot follow a multitude in their journey of life ; 
and if we try to do so, we soon turn away with a sense 
of confusion. The same may be said of historic details. 
When we read an account of the massacre of St. Bar- 
tholomews, when thousands were murdered at once, we 
are struck with a confused and awful sensation of horror ; 
but our sympathies by this description are not power- 
fully excited. Indeed, I doubt if a general history of 
all the sufferings of the Polish exiles in Siberia would 
awaken our sympathy so powerfully, as the simple narra- 
tive of Prascovia, the daughter of the exiled Lou- 
puloff. 

This principle, which is so carefully regarded by the 
painter and by the writer of romance, should not be 
overlooked, when we are designing the objects of a ceme- 
tery. The delightful, though melancholy sentiments, 
which are associated with a few simple flowers, from the 
garden or the field, blooming upon the grave of a 
friend, could never be produced by a dazzling array of 
them in crowded profusion. The same remarks will 
apply to monumental sculpture. A plain headstone, 
with a single affecting device, may draw tears fi'om hun- 



BURIAL AT MOUXT AUBURN, ETC. 59 

dreds, who would be entirely unaffected by the same 
device if it was accompanied by several other interestino- 
objects, and might look upon the whole assemblage with 
indifference. Let not the poetic influence which has 
always been justly attributed to flowers, or which is at- 
tributable to a single sculptured image or device, be 
destroyed by their excessive multiplication. If we cul- 
tivate the cemetery as a gorgeous parterre, or as a puppet 
show, it must fail to cherish them delightful sentiments 
which are so needful to the comfort of the mourner, and 
so grateful to all who come to the grave to meditate. 



BURIAL AT MOUNT AUBURN OF A CHILD OF THE 
REV. MR. WATERSTON. 

By Mrs. Sigourxey. 

Rest in Mount Auburn's sacred arms. 

Oh ! early called to lay 
The blossom of this mortal life 

Down in unconscious clay. 

Sleep 'mid its flowers, thou cherished form, 

For Summer's hand hath shed 
Her glowing charms profusely forth 

To deck the dreamless bed. 

And what so fitting for thy couch, 

Which Love had ever drest, 
As yon unfolding buds tliat hide 

The dew-drops in their breast. 



60 MOUXT AUBURN. 

But for the spirit, pure and sweet, 
Earth yiekls no symbol fair, 

The fuhiess of that bhss to show 
Which it hath risen to share. 

And ye, who night and day deplore 

With keen, paternal pang, 
The silence of that home that erst 

With infant gladness rang ; 

Press to your wounds, like healing balm, 
The fiiith that conquers pain, — 

Sees the child-angel in the skies. 
And feels how great its gain. 






S-^^'- 













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<?. * .-a3 



i'^S- "' »*S^***^?-'': 




THE LELAND TOMB. 

This is situated opposite tlie Gate, and below the eminence on which 
the Chapel stands. It has a granite front, surmounted with an urn. 
The whole is simple, durable, sensible, and without ostentation. 



62 MOUNT AUBURN. 

ANCIENT INTERMENTS IN GREAT BRITAIN. 

From Pennant's Tour in Wales. 

Sepulchral tumuli are very frequent in tlie village 
of Llanarmon. I was present at the opening of one, 
composed of loose stones and earth, covered with a layer 
of soil about two feet thick ; and over that a coat of 
verdant turf. In the course of our search were dis- 
covered, towards the middle of the tumulus, several 
urns made of sun-burnt clay, of a reddish color on the 
outside, black within, being stained with the ashes they 
contained. Each was placed with the mouth downwards, 
on a flat stone ; above each was another, to preserve 
them from being broken by the Aveight above. Mixed 
with the loose stones were numerous fragments of bones. 
These had escaped the effects of the fire of the funeral 
pile, and were deposited about the urns, which contained 
the residuum of the corps, that had been reduced to 
pure ashes. This custom appears to have been of very 
high antiquity ; it was in use with the most polished 
nations, — with the Greeks' and the Romans, as well as 
with the most barbarous. The ancient Germans prac- 
tised this rite, as appeal's from Tacitus. The Druids 
observed the same, with the wild addition of whatsoever 
was in use in this life, under the notion that they would 
be wanted by the deceased in the world below ; and in 
confirmation of this, arms and many singular things of 
unknown use, are to this day discovered beneath the 
place of ancient sepulture. The remote Sarmatae, and 
all the Scandinavian nations, agreed in burning the dead ; 
and the Danes distinguished by this, and the different 
ceremonies, three several epochs : — 



ANCIENT INTERMENTS IN GREAT BRITAIN. 63 

The first, which was the same Avith that in question, 
was called Roisold and Brendetiide, or the age of 
burning. 

The second was styled Hoigald, and Hoielse-tiide, or 
the age of tumuli, or hillocks. The corpse at this time 
was placed entire, with all the ornaments which graced 
it durino; life. The bracelets, and arms, and even the 
horse of the departed hero, were placed beneath the heap. 
Money, and all the rich property of the deceased used to 
be buried with him, from the persuasion that the soul 
was immortal, and would stand in need of these things 
in the other life. Such was the notion both of the Gauls 
and of the northern nations. Among the last, when 
piracy was esteemed honorable, these illustrious robbers 
directed that all their rich plunder should be deposited 
with their remains, in order to stimulate their offspring 
to support themselves, and the glory of their name by 
deeds of arms. Hence it is that we hear of the vast 
riches discovered in sepulchres, and of the frequent 
violations of the remains of the dead, in expectation of 
treasures, even for centuries after the custom had ceased. 

The third age was called Christendons-old, when the 
introduction of Christianity put a stop to the former 
customs ; for " Christians," as the learned physician of 
Norwich observes, " abhorred this species of obsequies ; 
and though they stickt not to give their bodies to be 
burned when alive, detested that mode after death ; 
affecting rather depositure than absumption, and prop- 
erly submitted to the sentence of God, to return not 
unto ashes, but unto dust again." 

From the remarks of these able writers we may learn 
the time of the abolition of the custom of burning among 
the several nations ; for it ceased with Paganism. It 
therefore fell first into disuse with the Britons ; for it 



64 MOUNT AUBURN. 

was for some time retained by the Saxons, after their 
conquest of this kingdom ; but was left off on their 
receiving the light of the Gospel. The Danes retained 
the custom of urn-burial the last of any ; for of all the 
northern nations who had any footing in these king- 
doms, thev were the latest who embraced the doctrines 
of Christianity. 

I cannot establish a criterion by which a judgment 
may be made of the people to whom the different species 
of urns and tumuli belonged, — whether they are British, 
Roman, Saxon, or Danish. 

Some of the tumuli consist of heaps of naked stones, 
such as those in the Isle of Arran, in many parts of Scot- 
land, and in some parts of Cornwall. Others are com- 
posed, like this of Llanarmon, with stones and earth, 
richly covered with earth and sod. Of these, the last is, 
in certain places, level with the ground ; in others, sur- 
rounded with a trench ; they were sometimes found of 
earth only. Others were of a conoid form, and some 
oblong ; of which there is an example in the neighbor- 
hood of Bryn y pys, called the Giant's Grave. Finally, 
other places of ancient sepulture consisted * only of a 
flat area, encompassed, like the Druidical circles, with 
upright stones ; and such were those of Ulbo, and of 
King Harold, in Sweden. 

The urns are also found placed in different manners ; 
with the mouth resting downwards on a flat stone, 
secured by another above ; or with the mouth upwards, 
guarded in a like manner. 

Very frequently the urns are discovered lodged in a 
square cell composed of flags. Sometimes more than 
one of these cells are found beneath a cairn or tumulus. 
I have met with, near Dapplin, in Perthshire, not fewer 
than seventeen, disposed in a circular form. When 



ANCIENT INTERMENTS IN GREAT BRITAIN. 65 

numbers are found together, the tumulus was either a 
family cemetery, or might have contained a number of 
heroes who perished with glory in the same cause ; for 
such honors were paid only to the great and good. 

The urns found in these cells are usually surrounded 
with the fragments of bones that had resisted the fire ; for 
the friends of the deceased were particularly careful to 
collect every particle, which they place, with the remains 
of the charcoal, about the urns, thinking the neglect the 
utmost impiety. We have no certainty of the ceremonies 
used by the ancient Britons on these mournful occasions ; 
but from many circumstances which we continually dis- 
cover in our tumuli, there appear many analagous to 
those used in ancient Greece and Rome. 

The Greeks first quenched the funeral pile with 
wine, and the companions or relations of the departed 
performed the rest. Such was the ceremony at the 
funeral of Patroclus. 

Where yet the embers glow, 
Wide o'er the pile the sable wine they throw. 
And deep subsides the ashy heap below. 
Next the white bones his sad companions place, 
With tears collected, in the golden vase ; 
The sacred relics to the tent they bore ; 
The um a veil of linen covered o'er ; — 
That done, they bid the sepidchre aspire, 
And cast the deep foundations round the pyre ; 
High in the midst they heap the swelling bed, 
Of rising earth, memorial of the dead. — pope. 

The duty of collecting the bones and ashes fell to the 
next of kin. Thus Tibullus pathetically entreats death 
to spare him in a foreign land, lest he should want the 
tenderest offices of his nearest relations : — 
6» 



66 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



Here, languishing beneath a foreign sky, 

An unknown victim to disease, I lie ; 

In pity, then, suspend thy lifted dart, 

Thou tyrant. Death, nor pierce my throbbing heart ; 

No mother near me her last debt to pay, — 

Collect my bones, my ashes bear away ; 

No sister o'er my funeral pile shall mourn, 

Nor mix Assyrian incense in my urn ; 

Nor Delia, thou, O thou, my soul's first care ! 

Shall, with thy dear, dishevelled locks, be there. 

— R. w. 

I beg leave to add the account given by Virgil of the 
funeral rites of Pallas. We find in it many ceremonies 
that were used by the northern nations. Animals of 
different species were burned or deposited with the body. 
The spoils of war, and weapons of various kinds, were 
placed on the pile ; the bones and ashes were placed 
together ; and a heap of earth or a tumulus flung over 
them. Some of each of these circumstances are con- 
tinually discovered in our barrows. Horns, and other 
relics of quadrupeds, weapons of bi'ass and of stone, — 
all placed under the very same sort of tombs as are 
described by Virgil and Homer. Perhaps the other 
ceremonies were not omitted ; but we have no record 
that will warrant us to assert that they were in all 
respects similar. 

The Tuscan chief and Trojan prince command 
To raise the funeral structures on the strand ; 
Then to the piles, as ancient rites ordain. 
Their friends convey the relics of the slain. 
From the black flames the sullen vapors rise, 
And smoke in curling volumes to the skies. 



A^X•IENT I^'TERMENTS IN GREAT BRITAIN. 67 

The foot thrice compass the high, blazing pyres ; 
Thrice move the horse in circles romid the fires. 
. Their tears, as loud they howl at every round. 
Dim their bright arms, and trickle to the ground. 
A peal of groans succeeds ; and heaven rebounds 
To the mixed cries, and trumpets martial sounds. 
Some in the flames the wheels and bridles throw, 
The swords and helmets of the vanquished foe ; 
Some the known shields their brethren bore in vain, 
And unsuccessful javelins of the slain. 
Now round the piles, the bellowing oxen bled, 
And bristly swine ; in honor of the dead. 
The fields they drove, the fleecy flocks they slew, 
And on the greedy flames the victims threw. 

PITT. 

Since I am engaged in this fiinebrial subject, it will 
be fit to observe, that a discovery of an entire skeleton, 
placed between flags of a proportionable size, was made 
near this place. This, as well as others similar in differ- 
ent parts of our islands, evinces that the ancient inhab- 
itants did not always commit their bodies to the fire ; 
for, besides this instance, a skeleton thus enclosed was 
found in one of the Orkneys, and others in the shire of 
Murray ; and with one of the last was found an urn with 
ashes, and several pieces of charcoal ; which shows that 
each practice was in use in the same age. 



68 MOUNT AUBURN. 



CURIOUS RITES OF DIFFERENT NATIONS. 

Muscovian Funerals. — In Muscovy, when a man dies, 
his friends and relations immediately assemble, and seat 
themselves in a circle around the corpse, and ask the 
dead the following questions : — " Why have you died ? 
Is it because your commercial affairs went badly? 
Or was it because you could not obtain the accom- 
plishment of your desires ? Was your wife deficient 
in youth and beauty? Or has she been faithless to 
her obligations ? " They then rise and quit the house. 
When they carry the body to be buried, it is covered, 
and conveyed on a bier to the brink of the intended 
grave ; the covering is then withdrawn, the priest reads 
some prayers, the company kiss the dead, and retire. 
These ceremonies finished, the priest places between the 
fingers of the dead man a piece of paper, signed by the 
patriarch confessor, purporting his having been a good 
Christian. This, they suppose, serves as a passport to the 
other world ; and from its certifying the goodness of the 
deceased, St. Peter, when he sees it, will open to him 
the gates of eternal life. The letter given, the corpse 
is removed, and placed in the grave, with the face to- 
wards the east. 

Interesting Custom. — A custom that was once preva- 
lent in Spain is deserving of notice. When any one 
dies, the relations, friends, and neighbors, carry tQ the 
survivors, at meal times, for three days, one or more 
plates of food, under the idea that the grief they feel 
will not allow them to think on nutriment. Some per- 
ons also accompany these dishes, in order to offer con- 
solation to the family. 



CURIOUS RITES OF DIFFERENT NATIONS. 69 

" In Louisiana, tliere is a custom," says an anonymous 
female writer, " which I believe is peculiar to the place — 
that of bearing a young bride to the grave in her Aved- 
ding attire ; and there is something in such a rite which 
must deeply affect the most heartless. Some months 
since I stood by the bier of a young bride. • She had 
been lovely in life, and there was a sculpture-like beauty 
in the marble face before me, — a solemn loveliness in 
the rigid countenance, — which spoke more forcibly to my 
heart, than it could have done when- animated by the 
changing expressions of life, for it told of a far, far land. 
I had expected to see her arrayed in the simple robe 
with which we dress the dead, and to feel alone in the 
presence of the mighty conqueror who sways his sceptre 
over all. 

" I was ushered into a large gloomy room ; long wax 
candles shed a flickering light through the apartment, 
and the deep and smothered sobs of the mourners were 
all that broke its silence. I went with others to look 
upon the dead, and I shall never forget my surprise, 
or the strancre and singular emotions which that view 
excited. Stretched upon her bier lay the young bride, 
who a little while before had been animated with life 
and joy. The rich and costly robe which she had worn 
upon her wedding day, enveloped her figure, and her 
pale hands, with their glittering jewels, were clasped upon 
her breast ; while the orange blossoms shone among her 
dark locks, and the veil, with its gaudy folds, fell beside 
her. It was a lovely, yet a moui'nful sight, to see her 
arrayed in the habiliments of joy, and lying in her still, 
calm beauty, in the embrace of death — the bride of the 
grave. The gloom and silence of the room, the rigid 
features of the dead, the low solemn chant of the priest, 
and the noiseless ceremonies of the Catholic burial ser- 



70 MOUNT AUBURN. 

vice, when contrasted with the severe simplicity of the 
Protestant service, produced an effect which it is impos- 
sible to forget. 

" A young child is always carried to the grave in the 
robe in which it was christened ; and fresh white flowers 
are strewn upon its coffin. What can be more appro- 
priate or more beautiful ? It lies down in its innocence 
and beauty, like a young flower broken by some rude 
wind ; and our grief for its loss is tempered by the 
thought that it has escaped the snares and toils to which 
humanity is subject ; that its young spirit has flown back, 
unsullied by sin, to the Being from whom it emanated. 
It is to the French part of the population that these cus- 
toms belong ; and in these and many others, they remain 
distinct from the Americans." 



''■*'<"*~^<^ ~-l^< 




^r-o,,^ ^_ ,., 



'^ '•^/fay /^, /,/A /jOitaM 



VIEW FROM CONSECRATION DELL. 



■ 



VIEW FROM CONSECRATION DELL. 

Tx front is a view of the Pond, and of a marble sarcophagus, inscribed, 
Martha Coffin Derby. 1832. 

In the middle and on the left we see four marble tombstones, the first 
a sarcophagus over the remains of 

Abel Kendall, 

In the other group is the monument erected to the memory of Francis 
Stanton, by his friends and associates. 



<^ MUUMT AUBUliN. 



ON THE PRINCIPLES OF ART AS APPLIED TO RURAL 
CEMETERIES. 

It is not many years since our modern rural cemeteries 
were established. An innate sense of the superior influ- 
ence of the burial place of the dead, when allied with the 
beauty of nature and art, first suggested the plan of such 
grounds. There was also a necessity for burying the 
dead of our cities in the suburbs. This latter part of 
their original purpose has been fully accomplished. But 
there are some imperfections in the manner of carrying 
out the original design of our rural cemeteries, which are 
fair subjects of criticism and satire. In many important 
respects, relating to their moral and religious objects, they 
are failures. They exhibit too many sad attempts to carry 
the arbitary distinctions of social life down to the grave, 
where all the slumbering inhabitants should be united in 
one common brotherhood, remembered only for the vir- 
tues of their life. 

These imperfections exist chiefly in the character of 
particular objects, rather than in the general style of 
laying out the grounds. It is doubtful whether the latter 
could be greatly improved. The general disposition of 
the paths and sites would produce an admirable effect, 
were the objects contained within the grounds designed 
with equal taste. The cause of this imperfection in the 
details, and of the superiority of the general plan, may 
be apparent, when we consider that the former are the 
works of different individuals, many of whom must be 
very defective in judgment, while the latter has been 
almost uniformly the work of one or two persons of taste 
and refined education. 



PRINCIPLES OF ART. 73 

It is a task, requiring, perhaps, one of the highest 
efforts of genius, to combine the works of nature and 
art, wherever tliere is a multipKcity of objects, in such 
a manner as to produce in the combination a harmonious 
and beautiful unity. There is no phice where this exer- 
cise of judgment, on the part of the artist, is so neces- 
sary, as in a cemetery. Sculpture might be carried to 
perfection in these grounds, and be made to enhance the 
desired effect, if the artists would always govern them- 
selves by certain general principles. An obelisk rising 
up in the centre of a grove of trees, is an object which 
no rules of taste would condemn. Build a highly orna- 
mented fence around it, and you introduce a trifling 
formality, that injures the unity of expression, in the 
same manner as if you were to plant a border of box, or 
a circular hedgerow, about each of the trees. The most 
venerable ruins have always sprung from the finest styles 
of architecture. A chaste style of sculpture is necessaiy 
on the same principle, to produce that union of simplicity 
and grandeur, without which a rural cemetery becomes 
like a mere magnificent toy-shop. 

In laying out a rural cemetery, two points deserve 
consideration : — first, the general design of the whole ; 
second, the particular design of individual objects. 
The general design is to impress the visitor with a pro- 
found religious sentiment, and a feelino; of devout con- 
templation. This can only be promoted by causing the 
grounds to wear an expression of solemnity and grandeur ; 
and these may be said to constitute the two general 
effects which are to be studied. 

The particular design of individual objects is to per- 
petuate the memory of the dead ; and this is promoted 
by constructing the monuments and their apjmrtenances 
in a-beautiful, simple, and appropriate style. Beauty^ 



74 MOUNT AURURN. 

simplicity^ and pt'^'ojjrietij are, therefore, some of the par- 
ticular effects which ought to be studied by the artist. 
In this essay we shall confine our attention chiefly to the 
general design. 

Solemnity is a sentiment allied to that of sublimity, 
and is calculated to jn-epare the mind to receive impres- 
sions of a religious and moral nature. The architects 
of the magnificent cathedrals in the cities of Europe have 
exhibited this art to perfection, in the style of their edi- 
fices, especially of their interior, where every object 
serves to impress the mind of the visitor with a deep, 
religious solemnity. The necessity of inducing such a 
state of the mind, in order to increase its susceptibility 
to the influence of the divine services, must be evident 
to all. The eloquence of the preacher, unless his per- 
formance be so low as to displease by contrast, is thereby 
greatly heightened ; and the picturesque character of the 
interior of these churches, has undoubtedly preserved in 
many a mind its original attachment to the services of 
religion, after it had become skeptical in regard to its 
divine origin. 

Even at the theatre this expression of solemnity is not 
overlooked in the management of the scenerv, whenever 
it is desirable to prepare the minds of the audience to be 
deeply moved. But we may learn this lesson also from 
nature, who teaches it in her own wilds. The notes of 
birds attract comparatively but little attention, when they 
are singing amidst a multiplicity of sights and sounds, on 
the trees in our gardens and enclosures, in town. But 
when we are walking in a dark and majestic pine grove, 
where there is nothing to interrupt the silence except 
the miirmurs of the AAind among the branches, the notes 
of the solitary birds, that occasionally break the general 
stillness, possess a charm that is indescribable. 



nilNCIPLES OF ART. 75 

If we would heighten the reh'gious influence of the 
objects in a cemetery, we must lay out the grounds and 
build the monuments and their appurtenances in such a 
style as to solemnize the feelings of the spectator on his 
immediate entrance. This solemnity of character per- 
vading the place, pre]mres the mind to feel the emotion 
of sublimity, which is one of the most exalted of our re- 
ligious sentiments. It is produced by the contemplation 
of eternity, and of the immensity of the universe. It is 
increased by all that is mysterious in the doctrines of re- 
ligion, in the future condition of the soul, and the infinite 
attributes of the Deity. It is not the religious alone who 
are susceptible of such emotions, or who can appreciate 
the benign influence of such contemplations ; for this 
susceptibility is an innate faculty of the hbman mind. 
Were all the accompaniments of a cemetery so designed 
as to harmonize with these feelings, every one must be 
aware of the superior impressiveness of its scenery, 
compared with its present influence. Neither would 
these circumstances serve to diminish any other effect 
we might wish to attain. Indeed, when the mind is thus 
elevated by solemn enthusiasm, it is peculiarly suscepti- 
ble of all tender and virtuous sentiments ; and Avhile the 
soul is thus exalted to heaven, it feels a deeper and more 
tender interest in the state of the dead, and the welfare 
of the living. 

Grandeur, which is the second general effect to be 
studied, is not identical with solemnity ; but the latter is 
greatly promoted by the former, and the same objects 
are often equally productive of each of these sentiments. 
A grand style of architecture in the interior of a church 
adds greatly to its solemnity, and heightens the in- 
tensity of all our intellectual emotions. It cannot 
be denied that the feelino; of cheerfulness is exalted al- 



'G 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



most to a degree of transport by an expression of gran- 
deur and brilliancy, in a ball Avliere a party is assembled, 
on a joyful or festive occasion Tbe merry music of tbe 
dance, and the solemn harmony of the Christian service 
are equally enhanced by the majestic appearance of the 
hall in which they are performed. Anything that exalts 
the mind prepares it to feel more intensely any emotion 
"which the scenes or performances may be designed to 
])roduce. There is no feeling or sentiment which it is 
desirable to cherish, that would not be heightened by a 
general expression of grandeur amid the scenes and ob- 
jects of a rural cemetery. 

The question next arises, by what means these two 
general effects may be promoted. They come equally 
from the stylfe of laying out the grounds, and from that 
of the objects included within them. It is evident that 
the desired expression cannot be produced by tombs that 
are covered or surrounded by ridiculous or meretricious 
embellishments. But there are, unquestionably, certain 
decorations which serve the particular purpose of beauti- 
fH'ing the monuments, without injuring the unity of the 
whole scene. Such are all those emblematic designs 
that are characterized by simplicity, which is not the 
same as barrenness, or monotony. Simple ornaments are 
such as do not counteract the effect intended to be pro- 
duced by the principal object, either by exciting opposite 
sentiments, or creating confusion in the mind. An illus- 
tration of this principle may be drawn from music. 

The accompaniments of a simj)le air are necessary to 
add force to its expression. If these are of such a char- 
acter as to give the air a still greater prominence in the 
hearer's attention, they are compatible with simplicity. 
But if, while they produce no matter what pleasing effect, 
they drown the air, either by not harmoniznig with the 



PRINCIPLES OF ART. 77 

themo, or by exciting in the mind a cliiFerent emotion 
from that which should be awakened by the air, the 
accompaniments are in bad taste, and the opposite of 
simplicity. The ornaments around a grave should be 
emblematical or suggestive of some pleasing moral or 
religious truth ; but like true wit, they should be obvious 
and intelligible, and, like a correct style of architectu.re, 
free from those trifles that serve to divert the mind from 
the principal design. 

Nothing so greatly interferes with an expression of 
grandeur as a multitude of small parts. , It is on this 
account that a grove of trees has more majesty wdien di- 
vested of its undergrowth, than when thickly interwoven 
with shrubbery. In a cemetery, this multiplicity of small 
parts cannot be entirely avoided ; but it may be remedied, 
in a measure, by the exclusion of fences, flower beds, 
all excess of monumental stones, useless ornaments, and 
a superfluous amount of shrubbery. By avoiding this 
defect, we should promote both that unity and harmony 
which are so necessary to produce a deep influence on 
the mind. In order to secure all these important objects, 
the grounds ought to be under the supervision of a board 
of trustees, who should, exclude everything that would 
derange the harmony of the grounds, by the introduction 
of a false ornament, like an accidental bathos, in a pas- 
sage of pathetic or sublime eloquence. 



MOUNT AUBURK. 



MOUNT AUBUKN 



BY D. KICKETSON. 



Here I will rest, upon this liillside fair, 

And muse upon the scenes within these grounds, 

Where towering oaks keep out the mid-day glare, 

From whose broad tops come forth sweet mellow sovmds. 

Like funeral chants o'er these sepulchral mounds. 

I am alone, and I would wish it so ; 

For with high interest the spot abounds. 

And while my thoughts with solemn fervor glow, 

I would a lesson learn, ere to the world I go. 

It is the hush of Autumn's solemn tide ; 

Far in the west the Sun his course hath spent ; 

Across the heavens the wild clouds swiftly ride. 

While scarce a ray to light my path is lent : 

'T is true I come no lost friend to lament. 

Yet I 've a tear to give to those who mourn ; 

And even now my rising sighs are spent. 

As towards yon grave with musing steps I turn. 

Where virtue lies enshrined beneath the voiceless urn. 

I love the spot, for bright in memory's page. 
Comes' up the day, when bidding books farewell, 
With buoyant steps I came to hear the sage 
Whose silver voice arose from yonder dell, * 
While crowds sat breathless as his accents fell. 

* Ct nsccratiou Dell. 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



79 



It was a lovely clay, the morning sun 

Walked in rich splendor up the ambient sky, 

And when his western goal was nearly won, 

Each haunt of this fair wood glowed with his brilliancy. 

But ah, how changed ! this lovely spot then seemed 

Like opening paradise to my young heart ; 

And nature here in rich luxuriance teemed. 

Where monuments now rise of vying art : 

O ! why should pride in this still spot have part ! 

Rather let nature in her wildness live, 

And o'er all scenes her living hues impart. 

From whence the soul heaven's blessing may derive. 

And feel its lagging powers again in life revive. 

The evening shades are fast assembling round. 

And to his airy seat each songster hies, 

While all is hushed "throughout this hallowed ground, 

Save where from yonder mart low sounds arise, 

That lull the ear like gentle melodies. 

And now I bid these scenes a sad farewell. 

Where many a noble breast in quiet lies : 

Ere I again shall come, ah ! who can tell 

How many a breathing form may seek its narrow cell. 



THE MOUNTFORT TOMB. 

This is a tomb in Willow Avenue, in which are depositel the remains 
of Col. John Mountfort and his parents, who were, in 1855, transferred 
from the ancient family tomb in Copps Hill Cemetery. 



RELIGION AND SCULPTURE. 81 

RELIGION AND SCULPTUEE. 

From Cheoxicles of the Tombs. — Bt T. J. Pettigrew. 

It cannot fail to have been observed, that a correct 
taste is generally found to be the accompaninient of true 
feelings of religious reverence. This is strongly exem- 
plified in the earlier monumental records, in which the 
expressions of pious feelings are seen to unite most closely 
with the examples on the tombs of the most refined ex- 
ecution. The secret sympathy by which such an union 
is cemented it is easier to conceive than to express. If, 
however, w^e need illustration of this truth, survey our 
ancient cathedrals, the ecclesiastical edifices erected when 
the deepest religious feelings were entertained, and they 
w^U satisfy us on this. There is an architecture which 
we all feel to be peculiarly appropriate to purposes of a 
devotional character, and whenever this is departed from, 
a violence is done to the feelings, which all must be ready 
to admit, they have at one time or other experienced. A 
deviation from that which most men establish in their own 
minds as a standard in such matters, is felt at once to be 
either of a theatrical nature, or an entire departure from 
the solemn purpose to which the building has been erected. 

There is a philosophy in this matter, and it is the phil- 
osophy of the heart. Similar feelings apply to the mon- 
uments themselves as to the buildings in which they are 
placed, and classical and heathen personifications and 
devices are felt at once to be occupying a position to 
which they are in no manner whatever entitled. The 
god of war or the deity of the waters are appropriately 
enough introduced into the monuments erected in honor 
of our military or naval heroes ; but they are fitted for a 



ol: MOUXT AUBURN. 

National Gallery, a Guildhall, or a Senate House, rather 
than the House of God. Nothino; has ever struck me as 
exhibiting greater impropriety, or as being more incon- 
gruous, than the admission of the representation of hea- 
then o-ods and o;oddesses into our funereal monumental 
shrines ; it is utterly indefensible, it is destructive of all 
devotional feeling, and a defilement of the sanctuary. 

There is much truth in tlie observations Dr. Wiseman 
makes on this subject in connection with the monuments 
contained in St. Paul's Cathedral. Alluding to the 
visitor of this sacred edifice, he says : — " There he sees 
emblems indeed in sufficient numbers, — not the cross, or 
the dove, or the olive branch, as on the ancient tombs ; 
but the drum and the trumpet, the boarding-pike and the 
cannon. Who are they aaIiosc attitudes and whose actions 
are deemed the fit ornaments for this religious temple ? 
Men rushing forward with sword in hand, to animate 
their followers to the breach, or falling down, while 
boarding the enemy's deck : heroes if you please, bene- 
factors to their countrj^^ ; but surely not the illustrators 
of religion." Again : " sea and river gods, with their 
oozy crowns and outpouring vases ; the Ganges, with his 
fish and calabash ; the Thames, with the genii of his 
confluent streams ; and the Nile, with his idol, the Sphinx; 
Victory, winged and girt up as of old, placing earthly laurel 
on the brows of the falling ; Fame, with his ancient 
trumpet, blasting forth their worldly merits ; Clio, the 
offspring of Apollo, recording their history, and besides 
these, new creations of gods and goddesses, rebellion and 
fraud, valor and sensibility; Britannia, the very copy of 
his own unworshipped Rome, and some of those, too, with 
an unseemly lack of drapery, more becoming an ancient 
than a modern temple." 

Repose must assuredly form the essential qviality of all 



RELIGION AND SCULPTURE. 



83 



strictly monumental sculpture. The solemnity of feeling 
and reverential awe, excited by viewing the depository of 
the dead, are disturbed by the association of figures im- 
plying action or the exercise of strong powers. The able 
writer before referred to, pertinently remarks, that 
" though so much money has of late years been lavished, 
especially on public monuments, no commensurate effect 
has been produced ; a devotional one was not intended, 
but none of any kind has been made ; we are not really 
interested by the gigantic memorials at St. Paul's ; they 
are large and grand, and many of them finely executed, 
but they do not affect us ; we behold them without feeling 
them ; as monuments they fail, even allowing that as works 
of art they succeed ; groups likewise cannot satisfy ; they 
will be looked at, just as the lions of Van Amburgh 
would be, were they grouped in marble ; but the iuAvard 
eye will not follow, and to it the best shaped deities are 
but as shapeless sculpture.'' * There is great justice in 
these remarks, and they ought to operate in the guidance 
of the erection of funereal or monumental memorials. 

Foremost among those who form exceptions to this 
incorrect and vitiated taste, should be mentioned that 
most excellent and accomplished artist, the late John 
Flaxman, R. A. His genius as a monumental sculptor, 
was first displayed in the monument erected in 179-i, in 
Westminster Abbey, to the memory of the Earl of Mans- 
field ; it principally consists of two figures, those of wis- 
dom and justice, whilst a youth is placed behind a pedes- 
tal, holding an inverted torch as personification of death. 
No other sculptor presents us equally correct ideas with 
regard to the true character of funereal monuments. No 
heathen gods and goddesses are exhibited upon any of his 

* British Critic and Quatcr'y Theological Review, Vol. XXV. p. 140. 



84 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



sepulchral works. Figures representing love, or pity, or 
affectionate sorrow, weeping over a sarcophagus — a 
figure rising from the grave, angels beckoning, &c., all in 
excellent keeping, harmonizing completely with the nature 
and design of the monument, and with the solemnity and 
purposes of the places in which it appears. Flaxman's 
w orks of this description are numerous, and an inspection 
of them never fails to excite feelings of awe and devotion. 

All who have gazed upon the plain coped stone cofltin, 
or those ornamented by a cross, sometimes of the most 
simple form, at others forming a species of ornamentation, 
but yet of a truly simple character, have felt much more 
touched than by the sight of a glaring monument, crowded 
watli figures of various descriptions, and executed with 
accompanying details altogether in the most elaborate 
manner. 

By the laws of Solon, no one was permitted to raise a 
sepulchral monument Avhich should occupy ten men more 
than three days in its construction. The Council of 
Rouen, in 1581, issued a canon against too costly sepul- 
chral monuments ; and Philip II. of Spain, in 1565, 
directed that monuments should not be erected in 
churches ; the memorials were to be confined to tombs, 
with a mournino- cloth over them. 



THE TWILIGHT BURIAL. 

By Florence. 

There are but few circumstances under which, to me, 
at least, the Catholic burial ceremonies and services can 
be deeply imposing. They are too numerous and com- 



THE TWILIGHT BURIAL. 85 

pli'cated, and involuntarily attract the attention from the 
simple and stern realities of the scene, to themselves. 
Society alone makes ns creatures of art and of habit, and 
it is only that which is natural and simple, which renders 
us again what heaven intended us to be, and awakens the 
feelings that are implanted in every heart, but which the 
world has so chilled that we almost learn to doubt their 
existence. Yet some great and important event that 
strikes upon the common mind, and calls into exercise 
general feeling, makes us deeply feel how far we have 
Avandered from the path which nature intended we should 
tread, and awakens a momentary disgust for the world 
whose magic has so deceived us, which we deem at the 
time can never be dispelled. 

The burial to which I allude, was one of those w^hich 
to me oiFered an exception to the general rule ; for there 
was something in the circumstances more than usually 
affecting. It was that of a lady whom I had seen but a 
week or two before, resplendent in youth and beauty ; 
possessed of all the charms which wealth and a very 
enviable station in life could confer. She was hardly 
seventeen, yet the idol of many hearts, — a wife and a 
mother, who was devoted to the fulfilment of the duties 
of her station. It was now the loveliest, yet the most 
dangerous season of the year, the very last of September ; 
and I could hardly believe that on the soft and balmy 
gale that swept by me, was borne the wing of death. 
But day after day, I had witnessed the slow and solemn 
processions, which bore the dead to the grave, and in the 
affecting language of Scripture, had " seen the mourners 
go about the streets." There was no prevailing epidemic, 
and the startlino; news that such and such a one was 
gone, came upon me with an effect whicli I could not 
overcome. Men do not always deceive others ; they be- 



86 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



guile themselves ; and self-deceit is the most dangerous 
of all errors, for we can only be awakened from it by 
some event wliich must overwhelm us in sorrow. It is so 
natural for us to believe that, because an event which we 
have long dreaded has never occurred, it is impossible, 
that we learn to feel ourselves secure. It was so in this 
case. 

We see the aged die with sorrow, it is true, because we 
cannot look upon the dissolution of humanity without 
emotion, but with grief that is robbed of its bitterness. 
They have looked upon changes and revolutions, — for 
life, in its earliest, smoothest paths, is diversified with 
many a shade ; and if even the young may weary of its 
])ursuits, may look forward with joy to the hour of re- 
lease, — Avill not rest be sweet to those Avho have long 
known the lingering agony of disappointment and of 
gi'ief? Great sorrows are not necessary to make us 
tired of the world ; there are minds so constituted that 
perpetual contrast must meet them in the society which 
they learn most naturally to avoid ; and it is only those who 
shun reflection that dread the grave ; for though we may 
fear the uncertain path, which unassisted reason alone re- 
veals to us, the hopes of revelation enable us to look 
calmly upon the mysterious future before us. But we 
cannot always contemplate with all these feelings the 
death of the young and the happy. If we mourn not for 
them, we sorrow for those whom their loss will render 
desolate ; we grieve for those who will listen in vain for 
the tones once so dear to them, who will sit in loneliness 
by their vacant places, full of the memories of the past, 
and the imagined bitterness of the future. 

It was not usual for a burial to be deferred to so late 
an hour as this ; but the service for the dead had just been 
read in the only church in Natchitoches, for another, and 



THE TWILIGHT BURIAL. 87 

as soon as its ceremonies were finished, the young Emeline 
was borne to its altar. I have witnessed the poetry of 
action, whicli has seemed to me pecuHar to this chmate, 
when contrasted with the rigidity and stitFness of ours. 
It is a natural, spontaneous expression of feelings, which 
are, I think, too often repressed by those who learn to 
think all kinds of enthusiasm ridiculous. Had I known 
notliiiig of the history of her who was so early lost, I 
could have read it in the arrangement of all about me. 
A large table, upon which the coffin Avas laid, Avas in the 
middle of the room I entered ; it was covered with white 
linen ; the Avindows, the Avails, the tables, Avere hung Avith 
the same drapery, tied Avith boAvs of Avhite crape ; and the 
bridal attire, AA'ith its long floAving A-eil, enveloped the 
fio-ure of the dead. To us Avho had knoAvn her in her 
youthful loveliness, the scene Avas most thrilling ; to those 
Avhom her loss had bereaved, hoAv much more so must it 
have been. 

There is no hour so dreadful as that Avhich removes 
the dead from our homes. Before that, even though 
they ansAA'er not our wild exclamations of grief; though 
they look not upon us Avith their eyes of loA'e, — they are 
Avith us : Ave seem to possess one tie AAdiich binds us to- 
gether, and Avhen that is seA^ered Ave knoAV the full bitter- 
ness of the cup Ave haA^e tasted. We speak, but they do 
not ansAver us, — Ave may not even look upon them, and 
a consciousness of the impossible, the irreparable, comes 
OA'er us, and makes us long to rest beside them. 

Oh, there is that in our grief for the dead Avhichhas no 
similitude on earth. Joy and sorroAV alike aAvaken it 
afresh. Time may melt away its bitterness, but there 
Avill ahvays be hours Avhen it Avill SAveep OA'^er the heart 
Avitli a poAver Avhich Ave cannot resist. If happiness is 
ours, hoAv natui'al to think of those Avho would have par- 



00 MOUNT AUBURN. 

ticipated it witli us ; — if grief overwhelm us, of those 
"vvliose sympathy would have softened its woe. The death 
of those we love throAvs, even in the buoyancy of child- 
hood, a cloud over our lives, which never departs, it 
takes from the picture before us a sunny hue which it 
never reo-ains. 

Long after we had joined the procession which bore 
the loved and lost to the altar of death, did the wild ex- 
clamations of the bereaved husband reach our ears, and 
pity for the anguish which nothing on earth could ever 
dispel, melted us to tears. The sun had gone down, and 
the lingering rays of the twilight, which in this climate is 
so beautiful, yet evanescent, were losing their bright- 
ness in the deepening shadows of the evening, when we 
entered the church. A blaze of light from the numerous 
candles burning upon the altar, lighted up its recesses 
with their flickering beams, and the pale rays which 
emanated from the large silver cross borne by the priests 
before them, with the solemn musical chant they uttered, 
produced upon me, who had never witnessed anything of 
the kind, an effect which it is impossible to describe. It 
was a mixture of awe, of curiosity, and of the sublimity 
which is always awakened, when in the neighborhood of 
death. The services, like all those of the Catholic church, 
were in Latin, and incomprehensible to me ; but they were 
long, and gave ample time for those reflections which are 
always excited by such a scene. Every spectator is pre- 
sented with a long wax candle, lit from the altar, which 
they bear to the grave. 

The pale stars were gleaming from the sky when we 
left the church for the burial place. It was a long walk, 
through a wild and uncultivated place ; and two and two, 
with the gloomy hearse before us, and the long mantles of 
black crape waving in the balmy air, we wound along 



THE TWILIGHT BURIAL. 89 

tlirouo-li the tano;led woods. The light of innumerable 
candles, reflected from the green leaves, upon the faces 
of those who bore them, shed a light that seemed almost 
unearthly ; and the echo of the measured tones of the 
priests, which came from the woods, woke in the heart 
new and most singular emotions. We entered slowly 
through the gate which was opened for us, and followed 
the bearers to the grave which was to receive the corpse ; 
caught now and then in the wild vines that grew upon 
some old tomb, or stumbling over some leaning stone or 
ncAV-made grave. 

The place was at last reached — the coffin was covered 
— the prayer Avas said, and those who siu'rounded the 
grave threw upon it a handful of earth. What a sound ! 
I shall never forget it. Heavily it fell, hiding the loved 
and the beautiful from our sight ; and we turned and left 
her, whose heart had so recently throbbed Avith the full 
and unchecked emotions of life, to the loneliness and 
quiet of the grave. The evening, whose balmy breath 
floated around her, was not more lovely or more gentle 
than she. And thus they go from among us — they 
whom we learn to love. Ah ! hoAV sad a thing is life, 
when we but form ties to have them broken ; weave 
bright visions but to fade ; love but to grieve. Yet at 
such an hour one would like to die, that the twilight dews, 
and the stars whose glory we have loved so well, might 
be first to shed their beams upon us. 

How strange that that which is most beautiful should 
awaken us to sadness. The charm of music, the enthu- 
siasm of poetic fancy, all that most elevates and ennobles 
our natures, strike a chord whose tones are too tremulous 
and indistinct to be defined, but which calls into existence 
feelings too deep for expression. It is like the glimmer- 
ing and half faded remembrance of some dream which we 



90 MOUNT AUBURN. 

strive in vain to grasp. Such are the feelings awakened 
in tliis dehcious climate. The balmy breath of evening 
floats around you ; the richest, purest azure bends over 
you, and the odors of flowers, the songs of birds, are 
borne on every zephyr. All is gaiety and pleasure ; yet 
this is a place to wrap the soul in its dreams of futurity 
as in a mantle, — to " weave passionate visions of love 
and of death," — to make its home among its own wild 
fancies and dreamy speculations. The perfect beauty of 
nature elevates the heart ; and whatever elevates, what- 
ever awakens the immortal nature which the world de- 
bases, carries us into the illimitable future before us, — 
lights again a spark of that fire which Heaven created 
within us. 

I have read somewhere a beautiful theoiy, which my 
fancy, though not my reason, impels me to adopt. It is, 
that the spirits of men are those of the angels who fell, 
placed upon earth to expiate their offences, and win 
their way back again to heaven, — that every infant who 
finds here an existence is some seraph embodied. It is 
a beautiful theory — who knows but it may be a correct 
one ? Then were these dreams which haunt us not the 
creations of fancy, but half remembered visions of that 
better land, to which our aspirations rise. 

The " cypress and the myrtle " are the fit emblems of 
this climate. They strip death here of many of the terrors 
with which it is usually invested. Every plantation has 
its burying-ground, and it is a custom to bury its owners 
upon their own land. Thus their groves, their gardens 
become their homes when they are dead ; and those who 
remain show their reverence for them, by twining sweet 
vines around their tombs, — by strewing their graves with 
the glory of the summer flowers. There are many reasons 
why this is a commendable custom. The most important 



THE TWILIGHT BURIAL. 



91 



is that it engenders an attachment to home, to the place 
where they were born and educated, which nothing else 
can excite in so great a degree. The deepest, holiest 
feelings of humanity become involved in its possession, 
and it is sacred as the grave of their fathers, as well as 
the home of their infancy. 

Upon the high road leading to a town not far from 
Natchitoches, may be seen a large and ancient oak, from 
whose trvmk the bark has been stripped, and this simple 
inscription placed upon it : — 

"Here lies the Rev. Williasi Gay, of Philadelphia." 
It has been there for many years, and invests the place 
with a mournful interest which nothing can dispel. I 
knew nothing, and could learn nothing of the history of 
him who has so long slumbered there. Yet, stranger as 
I am, I could almost have wept upon his grave. Why 
he was buried thus, in the depths of these Southern 
forests, I know not. Perhaps he died, homeless and 
houseless, afar from the eyes that watched for him, and 
the hearts that loved him. His title proclaims his pro- 
fession and his object, and it may be that he laid down 
his life, a willing and joyful sacrifice to the principles 
which sustained him. There is something more touching 
and simple, whoever he may be, in this natural monu- 
ment to his memory, than the richest marble could excite, 
and many an eye will be moistened with emotion as it 
rests upon it. 

The ancient Romans made the tombs of their illustrious 
dead even by their daily paths, that their glorious example 
might incite the living to virtuous designs. The Egyp- 
tians ever blended death with life. At their feasts, their 
bridals, the rigid features of the dead, crowned and girded 
with life's fading flowers, were beside them, and its fleet- 
ing joys became more precious from their contrast with 



92 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



the silence of the tomb. If they who worshipped before 
the mystic veil of Isis, or hung Avith awe upon the shadowy 
words of the priestess of the tripod and the dove ; if they 
made death the companion of their daily paths, — should 
not we, to Avhom the hopes of revelation are given, accus- 
tom ourselves to this inevitable decree. We are taught 
from our early childhood to look with too shuddering a 
sense of dread upon the grave, and in our efforts to shake 
oif its memory, we lose the healthful reflections that 
should spring from its contemplation. It is better even 
to lose ourselves in vain speculations of what may be, 
than to live in a constant forgetfulness of what is sure to 
befall us. 




s,"?.- 



THE LOWELL MONUMENT. 

This monument is built of granite, and stands in Willow Avenue. The 
name of " Lowell " is carved in raised letters upon its front, and the 
monument was erected by the executors of the late John Lowell, Jr., to 
the memory of his wife, who died a few years after their marriage, and 
of his two daughters, his only children, who did not long survive their 
mother. 

The Monument bears this inscrijjtion : — 

ERECTED 

by orber of 

John Lowell, Jr., 

IN memory of 

His Wife and Children 

AS A 

Testimonial of their Virtues 

AND OF 

His Affectionate Remembrance. 



94 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



MONUMENTAL SCULPTURE. 

When we are walking in a rural cemetery, it would 
be instructive to note the different emotions Avitli which 
we contemplate the various objects that greet our sight. 
We view this monument without any feeling at all ; the 
next may prompt us to say to ourselves " Hoav much 
money has been lavished here ! The builder must have 
been either a very rich or a veiy foolish man." We 
pass on to another, in which we behold an indescribable 
quality, that affects us with a sensation of the ludicrous, 
or with, perhaps, a feeling of indignation. There is 
something that savors of vanity in the style of it, some- 
thing that sussests an idea of the sinister character of 
the proprietor for whom the artist designed it. We 
may be unable to point out the particular defects of the 
monument, or the decorations that produce our dislike ; 
as in an ugly face Ave cannot always determine what are 
the features that render it disagreeable. The same emo- 
tions ai'e probably felt by almost every intelligent per- 
son who views the monument. Yet this same monument 
may be greatly admired and celebrated, because it may 
be very costly, as a foolish book is sometimes admired 
because the author has made a fortune by the sale of it. 
There is only noAV and then an eccentric individual who 
would venture to utter his real opinion concerning the 
book or the monument. Others are either diffident of 
their own judgment, or are afraid to differ from what they 
suppose to be public opinion. All despise it, and all pre- 
tend to admire it. Thus is the Avhole community often 
governed by a delusion, and a bad taste appears to pre- 
vail, because no man dares to deviate from a certain 
standard which falsely represents public sentiment. 



MONUMENTAL SCULPTURE. 95 

We next arrive at a monument that suddenly awakes all 
our sympathies, that causes us to feel an interest both in 
the history of the one who lies below, and in the mourner 
Avho erected the stone. We do not tliink of its artistical 
merits, nor of the wealth, nor the taste, nor of the char- 
acter of the owner. We think only of the dead as a sub- 
ject of regret, and of the mourners as objects of sympathy ; 
or something in its appearance awakens a tender sentiment 
of melancholy, or fills the mind with a deep religious 
solemnity. All this is the effect of the style of the mon- 
ument. It produces the effect which ought always to be 
studied, but one which is very difficult to be produced. 
Genius is required for such a design ; that looks to the 
moral influence of the Avork upon the mind, and not to 
mere display of art. 

Splendor neutralizes the influence of every scene that 
is intended to produce the sentiment of melancholy. Ar- 
tificial decorations, even when consisting only of flowers, 
if not arranged with extraordinary skill, mar that simple 
beauty which is the most interesting in a grave, and rob 
it of its sacred influence. Yet there are serious and de- 
liglitful emotions which are often excited by an appro- 
priate and expressive monument. The stone that marks 
the resting-place of one who was beloved and innocent in 
life, becomes a symbol of all that is divine in our natures. 
From the same source comes the pleasure we feel from 
the perusal of an epitaph, ennumerating the virtues of 
some humble friend of humanity. 

Our ancestors marked the places where their dead re- 
posed by two slabs of dark colored slate, or of red sand- 
stone, whose sombre hues they believed to be in harmony 
with the solemn character of the grounds. Some of their 
inscriptions were ludicrous attempts to be pathetic, and 
the emblems engraved upon their headstones, are often 



96 MOUNT AUBUEN. 

grotesque and revolting. The inscriptions on modern 
tomb-stones are generally more acceptable to present 
taste ; but the slate and the sandstone used by our prede- 
cessors, seem to be better adapted to their purpose than 
the white marble used at the present day. The glitter 
of the white marble greatly injures the impressiveness of 
the scenes in a graveyard. Light colors are cheerful, 
and dark colors are gloomy. The two extremes should 
be avoided. Neither black nor white are appropriate, the 
former being too nearly associated with gloom, and the 
latter with gaiety. The intermediate shades between 
white and black — those neutral tints with which nature 
embellishes her own ruins — these are the most proper 
for a sepurchal monument. 

When we enter a cemetery we desire to be impressed 
with cheerful but solemn thoughts. This is a feeling com- 
mon *to all, whatever may be their peculiar views of re- 
ligion. The objects and' decorations introduced into such 
a place, ought therefore to harmonize with the sentiments 
we are disposed to cherish. If the monuments are black, 
as the slate stones were formerly painted, and disfigured 
with frightful emblems of death and of our state hereafter, 
the mind is filled with aversion, and we turn from the 
scene, as we would turn from the mouldering relics that 
are resting beneath them. If, on the other hand, the 
monuments are all of white marble, and the grounds are 
decorated as we Avould decorate a scene of fashionable 
amusement, the place loses its solemnity, and we visit it 
with indifference. 

The principles of taste are the same in all the arts and 
in all their applications, and they require that all orna- 
ments should correspond with the purpose of the place 
for which they are intended. The cemetery should not 
therefore l)e decorated like a palace. Tlie monuments 



MONUMENTAL SCULPTURE. 



97 



should be simple, emblematical, and suggestive of our 
religious hopes ; they should be expressive, not expensive ; 
or, if expensive, their costliness should not be conspicu- 
ous. All ostentation of wealth is offensive, especially in a 
cemetery, where of all situations in the world it seems to 
be the most out of place. Even in a dwelling in the city, 
the beauty of art produces a better effect, if its costliness 
is concealed. There are many who think otherwise, and 
who labor to make their cheap houses wear the appearance 
of great cost. A little reasonino- on the sources of our 
agreeable and disagreeable sensations would convince 
them of their error. The most delightful works of art 
are those which combine the highest degree of beauty with 
the greatest possible simplicity. 

In designing the objects for a rural cemetery, it should 
be the aim of the artist to minister to those feelings 
which are in unison with the character of the grounds. 
A coxcombical preacher may gratify his own vanity in a 
higher degree, by exhibiting the elegance of his person 
and gesture ; but he would serve the purposes of a ra- 
tional ambition more effectually by studying to produce 
that effect on the minds of his hearers, which would in- 
crease their love of virtue and their reverence for the 
precepts of religion. If we were desirous merely to 
attract public attention to a monument, without regard to 
the sentiments, with which spectators would view it, an 
exhibition of costliness might serve our purpose. But it 
would not be regarded as a proof of our liberality, since 
it is notorious that the most selfish men are often the 
most extravagant in the sums they expend on a piece of 
ostentatious folly. 

If the citizens of a certain place erect a monument over 
the grave of one who was a public benefactor, this simple 
fact produces more effect on the mind of the spectator 
9 



98 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



than any thing else connected with it. "VVe feel a rev- 
erence for the dead to whom it was erected, because we 
here see the evidence of his goodness and of his services 
to his fellow men. It is the record of this fact, and this 
testimony of his virtues, that produce the principal effect. 
It is not the style of the monument erected over his re- 
mains, that excites our reverence for his memory ; yet 
the style of the monument may harmonize, or it may clash 
with this feeling. To produce the one effect and to avoid 
the other, should be the object of the designer, who ought 
to bear in mind that it is the evidence of the worth and 
of the virtues of the deceased, more than any other cir- 
cumstance, that yields a charm to the spot and its accom- 
paniments. If the monument exhibits a great lavishmcnt 
of expense — the question arises whether the individual 
commemorated was so much greater than those who 
slumber arovmd him ? The effect of such extravagance 
is to lessen our respect for the dead by exciting invidious 
emotions. If the monument is mean and inelegant, the 
mind is diverted by thinking of the niggardliness of those 
who, while they joined to honor the deceased, should 
grudge the expense necessary to render it decent and ap- 
propriate. The style of it ought to be that of simple 
grandeur, betraying no desire to excite our admiration of 
the splendor of the edifice, but conveying the most affect- 
ing memorial of the deceased. 

For a monument erected over the grave of a private 
person, designed merely as a tribute of affection, a differ- 
ent style is required. Some beautiful emblem should 
express our affection for the dead, and be the memorial 
of their life. A simple urn, with an appropriate inscrip- 
tion, would awaken more interest in the mind of the 
spectator than the proudest pile of marble. Nothing that 
is truly poetical would excite contempt, though it be the 



MONUMENTAL SCULPTURE. 99 

least expensive object in the grounds. A certain costli- 
ness in a monument erected to a public benefactor, which 
is very appropriate, would seem ridiculous and ostenta- 
tious in one erected by his own friends over the grave of 
a private citizen. This principle is too apt to be overlooked 
by designers. But as a cemetery is occupied chiefly by 
private tombs, the style of pi'ivate monuments is the most 
important consideration. 

The figures in most general use in monumental sculp- 
ture are the cross, the pedestal, the obelisk, the scroll, the 
urn, the broken column, the slab, the altar, and the tablet. 
A very common design is a pedestal Avitli an urn placed 
upon it. The epitaph is usually engraved upon the sides 
of the pedestal, and not upon the urn. This is what we 
commonly see in those family pictures which are used as 
memorials of the dead. A weeping-willow hangs its 
branches over the monument, and the figure of a woman 
in the attitude of grief, is leaning on the opposite side. 

In Pennant's Town in Wales, there is an account of a 
monument, erected in a Chapel in which " the figure of 
Hope reclines on an urn, and is attended Avith her usual 
emblem of an anchor. A serpent, with its tail in its 
mouth, expressive of eternity, includes the inscription on 
one side of the pedestal." The objectional part of this 
design is the serpent, with its tail in its mouth, an emblem 
which is rather ludicrous than impressive. 

" The Churchyards in Switzerland (says Simond), are 
adorned in odd taste, with fantastic crosses on each grave, 
tricked out with small puppet figures of saints or angels, 
dangling loose in the wind, the wood curiously carved Avith 
devices, and the whole gaudily painted and gilded. Two 
leagues from Berne, we stopped to see a tomb of another 
sort — the celebrated monument of Maria Langhans. 
The lid of the tomb is represented as breaking asunder, 
at the sound of the trumpet of the day of judgment ; and 



100 MOUNT AUBURN. 

a young and beautiful woman, pushing away the frag- 
ments with one hand, rises out with an infant on her 
arm. There is a great deal of sweetness in her face, mixed 
with a certain expression of surprise and yet of faith. 
But the action is hardly simple enough for the chisel." 

Every one must perceive the want of simplicity of this 
design, in its representation of an allegory, Avhich is an 
extended emblem, or rather something emblematical of 
incidents and events. Over a tomb we want a simple 
emblem, for a device, not an allegory ; a sentiment, for 
an epitaph, not a sermon. The figure of the mother and 
her child alone might be sufficiently simple ; the broken 
tomb encumbers the device with too much detail. The 
idea would be suitable for a painting, but it is too com- 
plicated for sculpture. Such representations do not suit 
the taste of the more intelligent of the present age. The 
more cultivated the people, the more do they study gen- 
eral effects in their designs, and the less do they admire 
such conceits as those above described. The old world 
is full of them. It remains for America to set the exam- 
ple of a new and a better taste, instead of blindly imita- 
tino; absurd designs, which ouo;ht to have become obsolete 
with the superstitions and fallacies of the age that invented 
them. 

I believe it is usual among artists in Europe to make 
a distinction between those stones which are designed to 
memorialize persons of different trades and professions, 
and of different sexes and ages. A stone erected over 
the grave of a young girl should be made in a style that 
should suggest the character of the deceased. It might 
be, for example, a simple tablet, rather slender in its 
proportions, containing an appropriate device. A matron 
should be distinguished by a different stone. An obelisk 
is thought to be most suitable for the grave of one who 
was engaged in public affairs, and might be used to sig- 



I WENT TO GATHER FLOWERS. 



101 



nify that the person who Kes beneath was a statesman. A 
clergyman might be d'stinguished by a tablet surmounted 
with a scroll or a cross. A small pedestal is very appro- 
priate for the grave of a young man who died under cir- 
cumstances that caused his friends to erect a monument 
to his memory. The pedestal has an emblematic signifi- 
cance of the foundation of future greatness and usefulness 
which death has caused to be unfinished. But if one dies 
in the decline of life, a pillar should be added to the 
pedestal to signify that his days were finished. 



I WENT TO GATHER ELOWERS. 

Written for the illustration of a pictufe representing a touno 
girl, with a basket of floaters at her side, seated ne.ir a grave 
and weeping. 

I. 

I WENT to gather flowers, a wreath to bind. 
For my young sister's birth-day gift designed : 
The birds were singing sweetly o'er my head, 
And every knoll was some bright flow'ret's bed. 
Lured by the scenes, I wandered far away, 
And paused not till the first decline of day ; 
When, as I looked around to mark my pace, 
I found myself within the burial-place ; 
But knew not thither that my steps were bent, 
And stood like one on heavenly errand sent. 

II. 

I laid aside my flowers to muse awhile, 
By sculptured rock and monumental pile. 
Ere this, I had been often told of death. 
The tears, the farewell, and the parting breath, 



102 MOUNT AUBURN. 

Yet knew but little of our last, long home, 

Our transient life-time, or the Avorld to come. 

The tombs, the gravestones, and the freqiient mounds. 

All scenes Avere strange Avithin tliese lonely grounds ; 

They spoke of things I was too young to know, 

Of living grief, and senseless sleep below. 

III. 

I had, as I was told, in infant years. 

Another sister, and my earliest tears 

Were poured when her young spirit fled away ; 

I knew not then she must forever stay ; 

But as I strolled to ponder and to read 

The words inscribed by living hearts that bleed, — 

I read my sister's name upon the tomb, 

And felt at once the nature of her doom ! 

Here, since that hour, hath my dear sister slept ! — 

And then I sank upon her grave, and wept ! 

IV. 

And is it here departed friends are laid ? — 

Is this the final dwelling of the dead ? — 

And does, indeed, my sister slumber here, — 

That dim-remembered one to all so dear ? 

Is this the home of those Avhom we deplore, — 

The friends who leave us, and are seen no more ? — 

Until these sacred olyects met my eye, 

Alas ! I knew not what it is to die ! 

Yet here, indeed, my missing friends have slept ! — 

And with the bitter thought again I wept. 



My sister's death I still remembered well : 
Yet why she ne'er returned I could not tell. 



I WENT TO GATHER FLOWERS. 103 

But here I learn the cause ; for there she hes, 
And sees not these fair flowers, nor hears my sighs ! 
I'd wreathe her grave, but plants of beauty rare, 
With seeming kindness, fondly cluster there. 
Then, as I wiped away my blinding tears, 
Upon her tomb a sculptured verse appears, — 
Addressed, perhaps, to her who now repines : 
Beneath my sister's name I read these lines : — 



VI. 



EPITAPH. 

All ye that in these holy precincts tread. 

And gather flowers that bloom above my head, 

Pause ere you bear the living gems away, 

And read the sacred lesson they convey. 

Like you, these flowers with youth and beauty glow, 

But perish soon, like her who lies below : 

Thus all mankind are doomed alike to die, 

And buried thus will for a season lie ; 

But, as the flowers in spring awake and bloom, 

We too shall rise immortal from the tomb ! 

VII. 

I gathered up my flowers ; I roamed no more : 
But learned a truth I scarcely knew before. 
I learned the state of those we call the dead ; 
And on my sister's tomb their hopes had read ; 
Yet still sometimes I cannot cease to weep. 
To think how drear the places where they sleep ! 
I dried my tears ; I could no longer roam ; 
And to my sister bore the garland home : 
But ne'er shall I forget those eaidy hours. 
When first I went abroad to gather flowers. 



GARDNER BREWER'S MONUMENT. 

This monument is situated opposite the south side of the Chapel, and 
is one of the most beautiful productions of art in Mount Auburn. It 
is in pointed style, and of fine white marble. 

This monument bears the following inscription : - 

Gardner, 

only son of 

Gardner and Mart Brewer, 

Died August 19, 1857. Aged 15 tears 8 months. 




GARDNER BRtWcR. 



ANCIENT FUNEKEAL PRACTICES. 105 

ANCIENT FUNEREAL PRACTICES. 

Selected and Compiled. 

Notwithstanding tlie melancholy gloom which the 
ancients cast over all their ideas of death and the grave, 
both in their moral and poetical writings, they appear in 
reality to have endeavored as much as possible to lighten 
those impressions, and place at a distance those dark 
phantoms of the imagination. Accordingly, the deep 
and solemn sadness attending our burials ; the black 
shades of yews and cypresses ; the dreary charnel house 
and vaulted sepulchres ; the terrific appendages of mould- 
ering bones and winding sheets ; 

" The knell, the shroud, the mattock, and the grave, 
The deep, damp vault, the darkness, and the worm," 

which, from custom, form so great a part of the horror 
we feel at the thoughts of death, were to them unknown. 
The corpse consumed by funereal fires, and the ashes en- 
closed in urns, and deposited in the earth, presented no 
offensive object or idea. Besides, to dissipate the sorrow 
of the living, or, perhaps, with a desire to gratify the 
spirit of the dead, wines were poured and flowers scat- 
tered over the grave. These offices were the grateful 
tributes of love and veneration. The manes of the 
deceased, still wandering about the place of interment, 
might, perhaps, partake of the libation and enjoy the 
odor ; at least his memory would be honored, and his 
spirit delighted. 

Whateve^r may have been the original purpose of these 
ceremonies, we find repeated allusions to them in the 
poets. Anacreon mentions the rose as being particularly 
grateful. The tomb of Achilles was adorned with the 



106 MOUNT AUBURN. 

amaranth, tlie flower of immortality. Electra complains 
that her father's grave had never been decked with 
myrtle boughs. Anacreon again beautifully alludes to 
the same custom : — 

Why do we precious ointment shower ? 
Nobler wines Avhy do we pour ? 
Beauteous flowers why do we shed 
Upon the monuments of the dead? 
Nothing they but dust can show, 
Or bones that hasten to be so. 
Crown me Avith roses Avliile I live ; 
Now your wines and ointments give. 
After death I nothing crave, 
■ Let me alive my pleasures have ; — 
All are stoics in the grave. — cowley. 

'We have an epigram by Leonidas, exactly to the same 
purpose : — 

Seek not to glad these senseless stones, 

With fragrant ointments, rosy wreaths ; 
No warmth can reach my mouldering bones 

From lustral fire, that vainly breathes. 
Now let me revel while I may, — 

The wine that o'er my tomb is shed, 
Mixes with earth and turns to clay ; — 

No honors can delight the dead. 

Hence we may infer that offerings of this nature were 
made with a view of ci'atifvin2; the deceased ; and it 
seems to have been a very prevailing notion among many 
nations besides the Greeks, that men after death retain 
the same passions and appetites that distinguished them 
when living. In Lycophron, a mountain is placed be- 



ANCIENT FUNEREAL PRACTICES. 107 

tween the tombs of two enemies, lest tlieir manes may 
be offended, at seeing the funeral honors paid to each 
other. 

We will offer the reader a few examples of tlie monu- 
mental inscriptions of the Greeks, among which may be 
found some of the best and most affecting epigrams that 
have come down to us. The following beautiful epigram 
is by the poetess Erinne ; — 

I mai'k the spot where Delia's ashes lie ; 

Whoe'er thou art that passes silent by 

This simple column, graced by many a tear, 

Call the fierce monarch of the shades severe. 

These mystic ornaments too plainly show 

The cruel fate of her who lies below. 

With the same torch that Hymen gladly led 

The timid virgin to her nuptial bed. 

Her weeping husband lit the funeral pyre, 

And saw the dreary flames of death aspire. 

Thou, too, Oh, Hymen ! bad'st the jocund lay, 

That hailed thy festive season, die away, 

Changed for the sighs of love, and groans of deep dismay. 

It is worth while to observe the allusion in this epigram 
to another custom of the Greeks, "svho frequently adorned 
the tomib with some symbols indicative of the peculiar 
circumstances attending the death of the deceased. 

The affecting incident of an unfortunate woman dying 
in a foreign land, surrounded by strangers, is preserved 
in the following lines of Tymseus, who has accompanied 
it with the excellent consolation of philosophy. Philasria 
was a native of Egypt, and died in Crete : — 

Grieve not, Phikeria, though condemned to die, 
Far from thy parent land and native sky ; 



108 MOUNT AUBURN. 

Though strangers' hands must raise thy funeral pile, 

Or lay thy ashes in a foreign isle, — 

To all on death's last dreary journey bound, 

The road is equal and alike the ground. 

The followino- contains one of the most cheering 
grounds of consolation which religion allows us to in- 
dulge upon the death of friends : — ■ 

When those whom love and blood endear, 

Lie cold upon the funeral bier. 

How fruitless are our tears of Avoe, — 

How vain the o-rief that bids them flow ! 

Those friends lamented are not dead. 

But gone the path we all must tread ; 

They only to that distant shore. 

Where all must go — have sailed before ; 

Shine but to-morrow's sun, and we — 

Compelled by equal destiny — 

To the same inn shall come, where thfey, 

To welcome our ai-rival, stay. 

The next epigram, which, in the original, is addressed 
to one Sabinus (author unknown), is aflecting and beau- 
tiful : — 

How often, Lycid, will I bathe with tears. 
This little stone which our true love endears ; 
But you, remembering what to me you owe, 
Drink not of Lethe in the shades below. 

This epigram is interesting in another light, as having 
probably suggested to Dr. Jortin an idea contained in 
one of the most beautiful Latin poems of this description, 
to be found in modern poetry, of which the following is 
a translation : — 



THE SEPULCHRES AT THEBES. 109 

O might the cruel death which ravished thee, 
In youth's soft prime, my Pseta, call on me, 
That I may leave this earth, this hated light. 
To dwell with thee amidst the realms of night, — 
111 follow thee ; Love, through obscurest hell, 
Shall guide, and with his torch the shades dispel ; 
But oh, beware the touch of Lethe's wave, — 
Remember him who hastens to thy grave. 

The truth is, that in their thoughts and reflections on 
death, mankind have ever had in view some idea of a 
consciousness that remains and lingers round the " pleas- 
ing, anxious " solicitudes and scenes of life. They have 
ever imagined to themselves a spirit after death, that 
busied itself in protecting the fame and character of 
their lives, that was yet sensible to slights or honors paid 
to the grosser and earthy parts. 



THE SEPULCHRES AT THEBES. 

Buckingham. 

The sepulchres of Memphis were placed in splendid 
pyramids, wholly above ground, and built upon a rock ; 
but at Thebes they are subterranean entirely. They are 
situated in a spot about a mile from the walls of the city, 
which is, from this appropriation, called the " Valley of 
Death." Passing up a narrow ravine, barren and deso- 
late, in which not a blade of verdure is to be seen, the 
visitor beholds on the left hand the apertures that lead to 
the tombs. When I was there, there were twenty-four 
of them open ; but since then, Belzoni has discovered 
10 



110 MOU]S'T AUBURN". 

twenty more. There may very probably be one hundred 
more yet to be developed by the researches of 'fature 
travellers. Such of them as are accessible, resemble each 
other so closely in all respects, that a description of one 
may serve for the whole. 

The excavations are carried through the solid rock, 
deep into the bowels of the mountain. Some of these 
rocks are of limestone, others a species of sandstone. The 
entrance of the sepulchre is an aperture of twenty by 
tw^elveor fifteen feet. This leads to a perforation or 
tunnel, the walls of wliich are made to incline inward for 
the sake of greater strength, and which extends in none 
of them less than one, and in some as much as two miles. 
At the termination of this tunnel we come to the Hall of 
Death. It is wdder than the passage leading to it, and 
contains an altar and a sarcophagus. In some this latter 
is made of sienite granite ; in others of basalt ; in others 
of a species of green basalt ; and in others again, the 
sarcophagus is of alabaster. Belzoni brought one of these 
away, and carried it to London. 

These extensive perforations through solid rock must 
have cost an amazing amount of labor. Each of them 
is equal in size to the far-famed tunnel imder the Thames, 
the cost of which was nearly three millions of dollars. 
Admitting that the multitudes employed in these excava- 
tions were slaves, and wrought without w^ages, still they 
must have been clothed and fed, so that the cost must 
have been very great. But the mere hewing and re- 
moval of the stone was but half the task. As the rock 
left a rough surface, the whole had to be covered over 
with stucco, an inch and a half or tAvo inches in depth, 
like the composition called chunam, employed for artificial 
hearths or floors. On this substance were sculptured 
battles, triumphs, sacrifices, and all those representations, 



THE SEPULCHRES AT THEBES. Ill 

which form the usual subjects of the Egyptian chisel ; 
and when the carving was finished, the whole surface was 
painted, — so profase of labor, time and cost, were those 
who executed these astonishing works ! 

The colors used for this purpose, after the lapse of 
tAventy-five centuries, remain to this day as fresh and 
bright as if laid on but yesterday. This is a phenomenon 
which forcibly excites the wonder of all beholders. It is 
probably to be attributed to some singularity of the color- 
ing matter employed. It was the opinion of Sir Hum- 
phrey Davy, that the colors must all have been vitrified, 
so as to give them the durability of glass or enamel ; but 
he could not conceive what medium had been employed 
to unite and blend them. 

While the walls are thus covered with painted sculp- 
ture, the ceiling is painted of a deep azure, and adorned 
with numerous representations of stars, these havino- their 
forms sunk somewhat below the surface of the ceilino- 
around them, and covered with silver leaf. Thus as the 
astonished visitor is examining these chambers by torch 
light, he beholds above his head an artificial heaven, 
while on every side he is surrounded by tens of thousands 
of figures and devices of various forms, until he feels 
bewildered and overcome by the strangely impressive 
scene, and the thrill of mingled awe and wonder seizes 
every fibre, both of the body and mind. To get some 
idea of the multitudes of figures on the walls, I took the 
trouble to count those which occupied a space two feet 
wide and twenty feet in height, extending from the floor 
to the ceiling, and I found them to be two hundred and 
fifty-four. They all seemed to have a meaning ; and no 
doubt many parts of them could have been read and in- 
terpreted by one who had the requisite skill ; so that 
probably the contents of ten thousand volumes may still 



112 MOUNT AUBURN. 

remain visibly recorded on the walls of these ancient 
tombs, there to be preserved for the instruction of ages 
and generations yet unborn. There are fifty such cham- 
bers accessible at present, and the number increases as 
investigation proceeds. Who may conjecture the flood of 
historical light which may yet be poured on the latter age 
of the world, should the key to these mysterious repre- 
sentations ever be discovered ? 



CENTRAL SQUARE. 

The ground called " Central Square " was originally reserved as a 
situation for some future public monument. Near this square stands the 
monument erected to the memory of Miss Hannah Adams, who was the 
first adult person buried in Mount Auburn. It was raised by her friends, 
and bears the following inscription: — 

TO 

Hannah Adams, 
Historian of the Jews 

AND 

Reviewer of the Christian Sects, 

THIS monument is ERECTED 

BY 

HER FEMALE FRIENDS. 



First Tenant 

OF 

Mount Auburn : 

She DIED December 15, 1831. 

AGED 76. 



10* 



11-1 MOUNT AUBURN. 



OLD GRAVEYARDS. 

There are few places which we visit with more interest 
than those old burial grounds, so frequent in our early- 
settlements, and in which the dust of our ancestors is laid. 
We observe in their appearance a charming simplicity, 
that attracts the attention of all visitors, enlists their 
sympathies with the dead, and excites a tender veneration 
for their memory. No exhibition of pride awakens en- 
vious feelings, or causes emotions which are not in harmony 
with the sacredness of the grounds. The mosses of age 
have softened the glitter of sculptured art, and given the 
sober tint of antiquity to the monuments, some of which 
have lost their upright position, and bend like humble 
penitents before the divine altar. Many of the works of 
the chisel, that might originally have emblemized the 
pride of the builder, have been chastened and subdued 
by the agency of time, and wear the look of the piost 
humble designs. When we wander among these vener- 
able scenes, we are impressed with all those tender and 
religious emotions, to which the burial place ought always 
to minister. We stroll among the most interesting of 
ruins, and while we look upon the old headstones, with 
their quaint emblems and devices, our reverence for the 
dead is exalted to a quiet enthusiasm, and all our thoughts 
are raised to heaven. 

There is some danger that the custom of building 
showy monuments in our modern cemeteries may prevent 
our posterity from visiting them with the same feelings 
which we experience when contemplating those of our 
predecessors. The simplicity that pervades these old 
grounds is absent from the new, which are filled with 
exhibitions of living pride. Time, it is true, will cast a 



OLD GRAVEYARDS. 



115 



veil over the glitter of all this ambition, and cause the 
most showy objects to wear a more humble appearance. 
But the original and unaffected simplicity of our old 
graveyards must ever be wanting in those, in which the 
vanity of the living has sought gratification over the 
resting places of the dead. 

Our ancestors entertained certain gloomy view^s of re- 
ligion and of our state hereafter, which a more enlight- 
ened generation has set aside. Some of the emblems and 
inscriptions that appear on the headstones in their places 
of burial, are indicative of their peculiar faith, and do not 
accord with modern ideas of religion. But intermingled 
with these are others that point to a happy immortality ; 
and the most of them afford evidence of such an entire 
resignation of all worldly views to their religious faith, 
that while we see nothing to admire in the monument or 
the inscription, we feel a profound respect for their piety 
and theii' devotion. The spirits of the dead are there 
represented, not merely as departing this life, but as em-, 
barkino; for another and a higher world. The an2;els, in 
emblematic devices, stand ready to receive their spirits, 
as of sisters and brothers, who are to be released from 
bondage and sorrow. Deeply moved by these objects, we 
never enter an old graveyard, without feeling a portion 
of the same enthusiasm that breathes from these affect- 
ing scenes. 

There lie the venerable dead, in one common ground, 
not separated from one another by family boundaries, 
nor by the ostentatious marks of wealth and pride. They 
are united in one great family, wdiose most eminent 
members were content to lie down in the grave, without 
a marble demonstration of their worldly greatness, undis- 
tinguished except by the letters on the stone that marks 
the spot where their I'emains are buried. The verse that 



116 MOUNT AUBURN. 

follows their name and age commends them to their 
Saviom-, in whose faith they lived and died, and the en- 
graving represents the flight of the immortal spirit to the 
God who gave it. No superfluous ornaments bewilder 
the mind of him who goes there to meditate, or to read 
the brief history of their life and death. The wealth and 
the poverty of the dead are not published over their 
graves, where we behold a simple record of their virtues, 
and a testimony of their faith and trust in the promises 
of their religion. In all we see the works of a true 
republican simplicity, of that singleness of purpose that 
distinguished their lives, and of that humility in which 
they resigned their souls to heaven. 

The flowers, embosomed in the mosses which for many 
years have been accumulating upon the soil, spring up 
with a singular charm around these old graves. The 
spade has not profaned their venerable mounds since the 
earth was first thrown up to receive the mortal remains 
that rest beneath them. But many a pious mourner has 
bedewed them with tears, and watched with sad pleasure 
the first violet of spring that appeared on the recent sods, 
and the latest evening primrose that lingered upon them 
in the melancholy days of autumn. And after the sor- 
rowinxr had ceased, and the mourners likewise were 
gathered unto the dust, the flowers still performed their 
sacred office around the old forgotten graves, as if some 
unseen spirit still watched over them and cherished the 
neglected sod. 

In proportion to the age of these grounds, and as time 
has spread a velvet surface of mosses upon them, is their 
apparent alliance wdth nature. The trees that bend over 
the tombs have extended their roots into the dilapidated 
mounds, and almost obliterated them ; and the old head- 
stones, that lean from their original erect position, are 



OLD GRAVEYARDS. 



117 



decorated with lichens of various colors, causing them to 
resemble the rocks in the solitary pastures. A profusion 
of wild shrubbery has diffused itself in irregular masses 
among the graves, and in some places, while the wild 
roses blossom upon the turf, the vine of the American ivy 
has wreathed itself luxuriantly about the monuments. 
The most humble shrubs are commonly the most inter- 
esting ornaments of these inclosures, because, like humble 
graves and humble cottages, they are more closely allied 
with poetry. When I witness these scenes, I am not 
affected with sadness. Though the living no longer 
mourn over the dead Avho lie there. Nature has received 
them into her own bosom, and with maternal fondness 
has wreathed the loveliest jiarlands of beautv around 
their graves. 

In an ancient burial ground, it is pleasing to mark this 
providence of Nature ; to note the tender care with 
which she clothes the baldness of the crumbling hillock 
with herbage and flowers, and the old monuments with 
plants that do not perish lil\e the flowers, but live on, year 
after year, and symbolize, in their ever durable tints, that 
immortality which has become the portion of those who 
have left their mortal remains to the faithful trust of 
nature and of the tomb. The most reverential efforts of 
human hands could not have wreathed about their tombs 
so many objects that endear the spot to our affections. 
Vainly would the gardener's art attempt to rear in their 
places gi'oups of more interesting plants, or hallow their 
graves by more affecting remembrancers. 

There are no persons of ordinary education and refine- 
ment, who do not linger with rational delight in an old 
graveyard ; and I have observed that they do so, not 
from a mere desire to read the quaint inscriptions upon 
the monuments, but evidently from a proneness to indulge 



118 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



those feelings of reverence for tlieir ancestors which the 
scenes inspire. Men who have but Kttle reflection or 
sensibihty, are by these objects converted for a time into 
poets and philosophers. The skeptic cannot enter here, 
without a temporary revival of those charming religious 
influences that filled and inspired his youthful mind. 
Above all, do persons of religious feeling and poetic imag- 
ination love to ponder among these scenes. Nature and 
art and religion have united to form here a combination 
of objects tending to humanize those who have forgotten 
their love for their fellow-beings, and to raise the thoughts 
of the virtuous still farther above the world. 

Notwithstanding the venerable and interesting charac- 
ter of these old cemeteries, there is a disposition among 
those who would sweep aAvay everything with the besom 
of " improvement," to remove them, to make room for 
land specvilations. Every old graveyard, though right 
in the midst of a village, should be preserved, not to be 
used for new graves, but set apart as hallowed ground. 
The trees that stand there have formed a grove, which 
ought to be as sacred as any that were in ancient days 
consecrated to philosophy. Let them never be disturbed, 
that the ground may be used for ordinary purposes. Let 
them be cherished as memorials of the simple habits of 
our ancestors, who, though often condemned for their 
disregard for the ideal and the beautiful, never wandered 
in search of the vanities that characterize the present 
times. It is hardly probable that we shall escape the 
satire of posterity, as our predecessors have escaped our 
own. Though no living mourners are seen to weep in 
these grounds, which have long ceased to be a place of 
sorrow ; yet they who go there, while pondering among 
the graves of their ancestors, may be persuaded to imitate 
their unostentatious virtues, and learn that wisdom which 
may be read in their humble biography. 



THE OLD BURYING-GROUND. 



119 



The old headstone that marks the grave of an ancient 
patriot, has no less value in our sight than if it was a 
costly marble obelisk. It is a venerable ruin as dear to 
a patriotic breast, as the proudest monument of our mil- 
itary glory. Underneath that stone lies the dust of one 
whose intellect assisted in modelling our republic, and 
whose courage, undaunted by the threats of tyrants and 
the marshalling of inimical hosts, wrought our freedom 
and established our independence. The name of many a 
hero, and patriot, and martyr, is recorded upon these 
leaning monuments. Let us preserve them with religious 
care ; let nature overshadow them with trees, and let the 
wild-flowers of all seasons attract the young and the old 
thither for meditation, that, while lingering there, they 
may learn that wisdom which too many have forgotten, — 
the wisdom of a humble life, which is the only safeguard 
of virtue, and the only bulwark of liberty. 



THE OLD BURYING-GROTJND, 

From "The Atlantic Monthly." 

Our vales are sweet with fern and rose. 
Our hills are maple crowned ; 

But not from them our fathers chose 
The village burying-ground. 

The dreariest spot in all the land 

To Death they set apart ; 
With scanty grace from Nature's hand, 

And none from that of Art. 



MOUNT AUBURN. 

A winding wall of mossy stone, 

Frost-flung and broken, lines 
A lonesome acre, thinly grown 

With m*ass and wanderins; vines. 

Without the wall a birch-tree shows 

Its drooped and tasselled head ; 
Within, a stag-horned sumach grows, 

Fern-leafed with spikes of red. 

There sheep that graze the neighboring plain. 
Like white ghosts come and go ; 

The farm-horse drags his fetlock chain, — 
The cow-bell tinkles slow. 

Low moans the river from its bed, 

The distant pines reply ; 
Like mourners shrinking from the dead, 

They stand apart and sigh. 

Unshaded smites the summer sun, 

Unchecked the winter blast ; 
The school-girl learns the place to shun, 

With glances backward cast. 

For thus our fathers testified — 

That he might read who ran — 
The emptiness of human pride, 

The nothingness of man. 

They dared not plant the gi*ave with flowers, 

Nor dress the funeral sod, 
Where with a love as deep as ours, 

Thev left their dead with God. 



THE OLD BURYING-GROUND. 

The hard and thorny path they kept, 

From beauty turned aside ; 
Nor missed they over those who slept 

The grace to life denied ; 

Yet still the wildincr flowers would blow, 

The golden leaves would fall, — 
The seasons come, the seasons go, 

And God be good to all. 
• 
Above the graves the blackberry hung 

In bloom and green its wreath, 
And hare-bells swung as if they rung 

The chimes of peace beneath. 

The beauty Nature loves to share, 

The gifts she hath for all, 
The common light, the common air, 

O'ercrept the graveyard's wall. 

It knew the glow of eventide, 

The sunrise and the noon. 
And glorified and sanctified. 

It slept beneath the moon. 

With flowers or snowflakes for its sod. 

Around the seasons ran. 
And evermore the love of God 

Rebuked the fear of man. 

We dwell with fears on either hand. 

Within a daily strife, 
And spectral problems waiting stand, 

Before the gates of life. 
11 



121 



MOUNT AUBURN. 

The doubts we vainly seek to solve, 

The truths we know are one ; 
The known and nameless stars revolve 

Around the Central Sun. 

And if we reap as we have sown, 

And take the dole we deal, 
The law of pain is love alone, 

The wounding is to heal. 

Unharmed from change to change we glide. 

We fall as in our dreams ; 
The far-off terror at our side, 

A smiling angel seems. 

Secure on God's all tender heart. 

Alike rest great and small ; 
Why fear to lose our little part, 

When he is pledged for all ? 

O fearful heart and troubled brain ! 

Take hope and strength from this, — 
That Nature never hints in vain. 

Nor prophesies amiss. 

Her wild birds sing the same sweet stave. 

Her lights and airs are given. 
Alike to play-ground and the grave, — 

And over both is Heaven. 






1 ',#•''> 














q: 

J. 
J 

d; 




FULLER LOT. 

The following and other luscriptious are on the Monuments in the 
Fuller Lot, in Pyrola Path : — 

IN MEMORY OF MAKGARET FULLER OSSOLI, BORX IN CAMBRIDGE, 
MASSACHUSETTS, MAY 23, 1810. 

" By birth a child of New England, by adoption a citizen of Rome, 
by genius belonging to the world. In youth an insatiate student, 
seeliing the highest culture. In riper years Teacher, Writer, Critic of 
Literature and Art. In maturer age, companion and helper of many 
earnest reformers in America and Europe. 

"And of her husband, Giovanni Augelo, Marquis Ossoli ; he gave 
up rank, station, and home, for the Roman Republic, and for his wife 
and child. 

"And of that child, Angelo Phillip Ossoli, born in Rieti, Italy, Sept. 
5th, 1848, whose dust reposes at the foot of this stone. They passed 
from this life together by shipwreck, July 19, 1850. United in life by 
mutual love, labors and trials, the Merciful Father took them together, 
' and in death they were not divided. ' " 



124 MOUNT AUBURN. 

ENGLISH CEMETEEIES. 

Abeidged from " God's Acre." By Mrs. Stone. 

" Earth to earth and dust to dust ! " 

Here the evil and the just, 

Here the youthful and the old, 

Here the fearful and the bold, 

Here the matron and the maid, 

In one silent bed are laid : 

Here the vassal and the king. 

Side by side, lie withering ; 

Here the sword and sceptre rust — 
" Earth to earth and dust to dust." 

It may be a fancy, but surely it is akin both to nature 
and reason, that the environs of the places solemnly 
dedicated ages ago to God's worship, hallowed by the 
prayers of succeeding generations for centuries past, 
where the air is redolent with the breath of prayer offer- 
ed up by pious Christians now sleeping the sleep of the 
righteous below ; where, perchance, we ourselves were 
admitted into the Holy Communion of Christ's flock, 
and where we have seen probably some of those nearest 
and dearest to us laid in their last narrow house ; where, 
it may be, their spirits are still hovering around ; surely, 
it is most natural, most reasonable, most pious, that there 
we should wish to repose too. 

For it is difficult to vmderstand the feelings of indiffer- 
ence with which some, sincerely good people too, declaim 
on the worthlessness of the body, and their carelessness 
of what becomes of it. " What matters," say they, " this 



ENGLISH CEMETERIES. 125 

old vile garment, these rags ? " Oh, much, very much. 
For are we not told it shall rise again ? This contempt- 
uous indifference is very far removed from a Christian 
repudiation of pomp and finery. Persons who are 
indifferent as to the usage of their mortal remains, 
contemptuous as to its present destination, or callous 
as to its surgical dismemberment, must quite forget St. 
Paul's sublime exposition of the doctrine of the resur- 
rection of the body. Such indifference is at least more 
philosophical than natural or religious. 

For they are not dead. No, oh, no. We are sure 
of that. The calm, silent, lifeless frame on which we 
look, shall surely rise again, " clothed and in his right 
mind." Clothed with immortality, robed in inexpres- 
sible beauty, fraught with an angel's mind. Yes, this 
body, — waiting, sleeping, changed, — this human chry- 
salis shall waken, and soar on radiant wing to that 
empyreum, whence its immortal spirit first emanated. 

Far more consonant with the best feelino-s of our 
nature is the impulse which causes parents to lay their 
lost children in one grave ; or children to implore to 
be interred with their departed parents ; or the unfor- 
getting widow to pray that she may be carried to the 
grave of her husband, buried fifty years before, and far 
away from the spot where destiny had fixed her in later 
life. The observation of Edmund Burke, on his first 
visit to Westminster Abbey, has been recorded : — 

" I would rather sleep in the southern corner of a 
country churchyard, than in the tomb of the Capulets. 
I should like, however, that my dust should mingle with 
kindred dust ; the good old expression ' family burying- 
ground ' has something pleasing in it, at least to me." 

When, in early times, it was forbidden to inter two 
bodies in one grave, exception was always made in the 
11* 



126 MOUNT AUBURN. 

case of husband and wife, — the most touching and 
reverent acknowledgment of the sanctity of the marriage 
tie that it is possible to conceive. 

We have Scriptvire testimony to show that this solici- 
tude about a burying place is not only natural, but pious 
and holy. On the death of the patriarch Jacob, his 
most dearly loved son Joseph thus spoke to Pharaoh : — 

" My father made me swear, saying, — Lo, I die. In 
my grave, which I have digged for me in the land of 
Canaan, there shalt thou bury me. Now, therefore, 
let me go up, I pray thee, and buiy my father, and I 
will come again. 

" And Pharaoh said, — Go up, and bury thy father, 
according as he made thee swear. 

" And Joseph went up to bury his father, and with 
him went all the servants of Pharaoh, the elders of his 
house, and all the elders of the land of Egypt." 

The foregoing remarks were in part suggested by a 
visit which I made to one of the most favorite and 
fashionable of English cemeteries. I was not previously 
acquainted with the neighborhood ; but I soon ascer- 
tained my near approach to the spot, by the number 
of stone-mason's yards which I passed, decked with urns, 
tablets, and other funereal sculptures. 

I entered the cemetery : a more beautiful and luxu- 
rious garden it is impossible to conceive. The season 
M^as autumn, and every path was radiant with dahlias, 
fuschias, verbenas, heliotropes, salvias, lobelias, gera- 
niums, monthly roses, and a multitude of other flowers, 
in the richest bloom. Such fine African and French 
marigolds I never saw, though I thought them in very 
had taste there. In some country churchyards, where 
the custom of planting flowers is most rife, no kinds 
are thought of that are not sweet-scented. Merely 



ENGLISH CEMETERIES. 



127 



beautiful looking flowers are never admitted, though it 
is said these are sometimes planted by stealth, as a sort 
of satire, on the grave of an unpopular person ! 

But on the graves of beloved ones, the homely, sweet- 
scented rosemary, emblem of remembrance, the aconite, 
the snowdrop, the violet, and lily of the valley ; and the 
rose — ever the rose — type always of purity, affection, 
goodness ; these are suitable to churchyard or cemetery. 

These, and the humble, unshowy, fragrant mignionette, 
had been in far better taste than the flaunting flowers to 
which I have referred. The beautiful laurustinus, flow- 
ering as it does (in England) the winter through, and 
the arbutus, with its gorgeous fruit, gleamed at frequent 
intervals, forming a beautiful relief to the gloomy cypress 
and dismal yew. It is no unusual mistake in church- 
yards, as well as in modern cemeteries, to plant these 
latter shrubs so thickly — at the head and foot, for 
instance, of graves placed closely together — that they 
cannot possibly have room to grow ; and the effect of 
regular regimental rows of evergreens, dwarfed and 
crippled like stunted shrubs, is rather ludicrous, than 
solemn or touching. 

I had not proceeded far ere I came to a placard 
within the grounds, noting that — 

" the Company undertake to turf and plant 

graves, and to maintain and keep them in order, on the 
following terms : — 

Per annum, . . . £ 

In perpetuity, . . . £ ." 

It is a pity all the "proprietors of graves" are not 
acquainted with, or are not inclined to avail themselves 
of this notification. Some of the graves are in a sad 
and disreputable state of disorder. The clematis, planted 
by friends under the first impulse of grief, is trailing 



12S 



MOUNT AUBUKN. 



disorderly, far and wide beyond its proper bounds, and 
the branches of cypress unnurtured, unpruned, forgotten, 
are sere, brown, and unsightly ; and rank weeds and 
traihng, neglected shrubs, deface the very memorials 
graven on the tombs. 

In a plain churchyard, however neglected, decay does 
not strike such a feeling of desolation to the heart. The 
long, rank grass, uncared for and unpruned, is unsightly 
enough ; but it does not convey to the mind the idea 
of the forgetfidness of the living which is raised by the 
sight of a grave, once trim, and surrounded with costly 
exotic flowers, now carelessly suffered to dwindle and 
decay. 

In many parts of France, but more especially in the 
southern counties, specific monuments have been built, 
in order to preserve that remembrance of the dead, 
which is one of the highest and purest attributes of our 
humanity. These are the Lanternes des Morts ; 
erections, the chief purpose of which is to throw light 
on the cemeteries during the hours of night and dark- 
ness. 

In the tAvelfth and thirteenth centuries, sepulchral 
chapels, or else holloAv columns, were often erected in 
the middle of cemeteries, bearing on the summits lamps 
or lanterns, which, by night, cast their rays on all sur- 
rounding tombs. The chapels vary much in size and 
style, — some being highly elaborate and very orna- 
mental, and having bases, with open pillars around, in 
which the deceased might be exposed to view, laid in 
state, or cared for as necessity might require before his 
interment ; or here might be celebrated the office for the 
dead, and other usages, of which the memory is lost. 
They had, for the most part, the circular form, which 
was that of the Holy Sepulchre at Jerusalem. 



ENGLISH CEMETERIES. 



129 



The Colomies Creuses, which, much less costly, elab- 
orate, and ornamental, still served the same purpose of 
throwing light on the tombs around, were merely hollow 
columns, sometimes ascended by a spiral inner staircase, 
and having a lantern at the top — a sort of homage 
rendered to the memory of the dead — a signal remind- 
ing the passers-by of their presence, and inviting to 
prayer. 

The}^ are more especially met with in the cemeteries 
touching on much frequented roads, being erected to 
preserve the living from the fear of ghosts and the spirits 
of darkness, with whom the imagination of our ancestors 
peopled the places of burial during the night, and who 
were suffered always to be scared away by light ; and 
they were especially to remind the living to pray for the 
dead. 

My pilgrimage to the cemetery I have above reft^rred 
to had an especial object. I wanted a particular tomb, 
the grave of one whose memory I honored. Unable 
myself to find it, I was compelled to ap})ly to one of 
the persons employed on the ground, and he conducted 
me to it at once. How pleased was I to find a plain 
tombstone, perfectly clean and neat, in a remote, se- 
cluded corner, with no flaunting exotics or emblazoned 
trophies to attract the eye of the careless lounger, but 
environed only by the verdant, green turf, which Nature 
herself cherishes. 

It was on the occasion of the interment at this grave 
that the touching incident really occurred, which a poet's 
fancy had created long ago. Southey, in his " Joan of - 
Arc," writes many a long year ago : — 

I I'emember as the bier 
Went to the grave, a lark sprung up aloft. 



130 MOUNT AUBURN. 

And soared amid the sunshine, carolling, 
So full of joy, that to the mourner's ear. 
More mournfully than dirge or passing bell, 
His joyful carol came ; — 

hut, at tlie funeral to which I allude, this incident did 
occur, and was thus recorded by the friend and clergy- 
man, by whom the solemn service was read, — 

Over that solemn pageant, mute and dark 
Where in the grave we laid to rest. 
Heaven's latest, not least welcome guest. 

What didst thou on the wing, thou jocund lark, 
Hovering in unrebuked glee, 

And carolling above that mournful company ? 

Oh thou light-livino; and melodious bird ! 
' At every sad and solemn fall 

Of mine own voice, each interval 
In thy soul-elevating prayer, I heard 

Thy quivering descant, full and clear — 
Discord not inharmonious to the ear ! 

We laid her there, the minstrel's darling child ; 

Seemed it then meet, that borne away 

From the close city's dubious da}*. 
Her dirge should be thy native wood-note wild ; 

Nursed upon nature's lap, her sleep 
Should be where birds may sing and dewy flowrets 
weep. 

On a vast manv tombs were huno; wreaths, or rather 
circlets of the yellow flower, the French immortelles, 
of which the common English country name is " ever- 
lastino-." 



I 



ENGLISH CEMETERIES. 131 

I passed through the sepulchral chambers, and ex- 
pressed a wish to descend into the vaults, which I was 
enabled to do for the fee of one shilling. These show 
vaults have certainly nothing dark, damp, lugubrious, 
or unsightly about them — no token of decay as yet ; and 
so well planned are they, and so thoroughly ventilated, 
that no such natural result seems to be apprehended. 
They are just as much show-places as the gardens above, 
only not so much frequented, because some don't like to 
descend the steps, and some don't like the look of a 
coffin, and some don't like to part with a shilling. The 
guide takes you up one corridor and down another, 
closely planted on each side with niches filled with 
coffins, several of them plastered up, but the greater 
proportion left partly open, to display the ornaments on 
the head of the coffin, which, ever and anon, when very 
handsome, are pointed out to you by the conductor. 
Miserable foppery ! 

Where are the feelings of solemnity and awe with 
which the mind ought to be imbued in such a scene 
as this, when, at every turn, you are called upon to 
admire those clustered gilt nails — that rich ormolu 
ornament — that golden handle — that elaborate inscrip- 
tion ! 

But once my guide stopped at a niche closed — yes, 
it was quite and entirely closed. No inquisitive eye 
could pry into its recesses. 

" Ay," he said, and he tapped on the wall with his 
keys ; " ay, but here's a young lady here, as is a deal 
more thought of than them folks with the fine, grand 
coffins." 

" A young lady ? " 

" Ay, quite young. I remember the time, — it's just 
about three years ago, — and a sight of folks came after 
her vet." 



132 MOUNT AUBURN. 

" Came after her ! What for ? " 

"" Oh, just to crj. They will always come down into 
the vauh at once. There was some on 'em here only 
the day afore yesterday, and how they did cry, to be 
sure ! Poor, young thing ! They were very fond of 
her, I reckon." 

The man's tone and manner expressed so much feel- 
ing, that my heart softened towards him, and I inwardly 
vowed to bestow another sixpence upon him. At that 
moment, my eye was caught by a coffin of huge dimen- 
sions, black, without ornament, but dusty looking, and 
quite uncanopied ; giving one the idea of a lumber chest 
put on a shelf out of the way. 

" Whose coffin is that ? " 

" That ! Oh, that holds the biggest rogue in Chris- 
tendom ; " and the man sneered somewhat, and entered 
upon the history of the rogue with such evident gusto, 
that, on parting with him, I neglected my intended 
guerdon of an extra sixpence. 

Mine be a grave — not in a fashionable cemetery, 
where all indifferent visitors may scan the decorations 
of your coffin for the " low price of one shilling ; " nor 
would I wish to be buried even in the open ground of 
one of these modern depositories, where city wives bring 
their children for a " country excursion," on a summer 
holiday, and ply them with cakes and oranges all the 
way ; or where the point-device fops and simpering 
misses lisp their puerile nonsense — not lovers, only 
idlers ! A lover's tryst — be the rank and manners of 
the party what they may — if there be true faith, pure 
affection, earnest love, a lover's tryst is a holy thing. 

Neither would I wish to be buried in the dark, cold 
vaults of a church ; as much too dark and noisome as 
those of a modern cemetery are too airy and light. 



ENGLISH CEMETERIES. 133 

Bvxt may I lie in a churchyard, with at least the pure, 
fresh air blowins over me. Let the dust be resolved to 
dust, the ashes to ashes, as soon as may be, in hope of a 
joyful resurrection. Let the free air of heaven blow 
over my grave, the green, fresh grass wave over it also ; 
the trees blossom near, and young lovers meet under 
their shade. May such be the grave in which I shall 
hereafter rest! 

Whilst transcribing these notes, the following applica- 
ble lines from Beattie's 3Iinstrel were placed before 
me : — 

Let vanity adorn the marble tomb 

With trophies, rhymes, and scutcheons of renown, 
Li the deep dungeons of some Gothic dome, 

Where night and desolation ever frown : 
Mine be the breezy hill that skirts the down, 

Where a green, grassy tiu'f is all I crave, 
With here and there a violet bestrown. 

Fast by a brook or fountain's murmuring wave. 
And many an evening sun shine sweetly on my grave ! 

We have the similar testimony of another poet. Allan 
Cunningham was offered by Chantrey a place in his own 
new elaborate mausoleum. The reply was, — 

"No, no. I'll not be built over when I am dead; I'll 
lie where the wind shall blow, and the daisy grow upon 
my grave." 



12 



HARVARD HILL. 

The spot that contains the grave of President Kirkland, has been 
named " Harvard Hill." It was purchased by the Corporation of the 
University of Cambridge for a burial place for the officers of the 
institution, and some of its students. The Kirkland monument is an 
ornate sarcophagus, having on its top an outspread scroll, upon which 
rests a book. On one side of the monument are these words : — 

Johannes Thornton Kirkland, 

V. D. M., S. T. D. 

Decessit Aprilis Die XX VL, 

Anno Do ini M.D.CCCXL. 

a.etatis su.e lxix. 



On the opposite side is this inscription : — 

JoHANNi Thornton Kirkland, &c. 






GKAVES OF CHILDREN. 



GRAVES OF CHILDREN 



135 



There is nothing of a melancholy description more in- 
teresting or picturesque than the little grassy mound that 
marks the grave of an infant. It takes hold of the feelings 
more sensibly than other graves, and impresses upon the 
mind the reflection that the little occupant had not lived the 
allotted period of human life, but was cut down prema- 
turely like a budding flower, before it had opened its eyes 
to the rays of the morning. On beholding it, we feel a 
tender sympathy, as for one who has been deprived of 
joys that were prepared for his fruition. It calls to mind 
the innocence of the child, its playfulness, its hopefulness, 
and its occasional sorrows ; and the little mound becomes 
expressive of many affecting images of hope and disap- 
pointment, of maternal love, and its early bereavement. 
We think of the stern disease that deprived the young 
child of its life, of sufferings which it could not speak, of 
maternal tears shed over its cradle, and of the despair that 
accompanied its burial, so that a perfect poem could 
hardly be more suggestive than this little mound. 

No other graves by their dimensions indicate the age 
of the occupant, and its diminutiveness becomes, there- 
fore, a part of its interesting character. If one has ever 
lost an infant child, or an infant brother or sister, how 
vividly is the remembrance of its life awakened by the 
sight of one of these hillocks ! It is a beautiful emble- 
matic picture, in which the history of the child is related 
by the turfs, the flowers, and the headstone, each bring- 
ing to light some interesting event in its life, or some 
pleasing trait in its budding affections. No feelings but 
those of love and of sorrow, — no hate, nor envy, nor 
jealousy, can be associated with such a grave ; and if 



136 



MOUNT AUBUKN. 



angels ever come from heaven to linger about the scenes 
of earth, and to administer consolation to disinterested 
grief, they must delight to watch over these little graves, 
to receive the sighs that are breathed over them, and to 
pour the balm of heaven into the hearts of the mourners. 

When children die, the grief we feel is that of affliction 
alone, unalloyed with any selfishness or pride ; the foun- 
tain of that sorrow is as pure as the dews of morning that 
glitter upon mossy turf. If we have no connection with 
the departed, we feel a deep sympathy with those who 
are afflicted, as sincere and unaffected mourners. But 
the mother who has lost a child in its tender years, as 
some one * has poetically remarked, is never without an 
infant. The other members of the young group attain 
the fulness of their adult years, and they are no longer 
children ; and the remembrance of them, as such, has 
been obliterated by her intercourse with them in later 
life. She seldom thinks of them as children : but the 
little one that departed, in its infancy or childhood, re- 
mains always bright in the memory of its parent. She 
never forgets its countenance, its motions, its smiles, or 
any of the interesting features of its character. All the 
incidents of its short life are embalmed in her memory, 
and remain there with an ever-enduring affection and 
veneration. 

After the death of a beloved child, it may be truly 
said, that there is always an angel in the house, iden- 
tified with all the scenes and incidents of the past, and 
hallowing those few years, during which it tarried on 
earth, as a period peculiarly sacred to memory. The 
bereaved mother feels ever afterwards that there is a 
sanctity about her dwelling, which she perceives in no 
other place except the house of God, and the room in 

* Rev. Charles K. True. 



GRAVES OF CHILDREN. 



137 



which she witnessed its dying sighs, is ahvays from that 
moment consecrated to affection and to sorrow. When 
the poignancy of recent grief has heen softened into a 
melancholy and quiet remembrance, there is a perpetual 
fountain of happiness in the recollection of the lost one, 
whose sacred image is associated with every scene and 
object with which it was familiar. Everything that was 
prized by the departed, has become sacred in the eyes of 
the parent ; and the places it frequented are illumined 
with the light of the affection she bore it, and of the 
smiles which were returned. 

A similar but more melancholy light beams from the 
grave of the little slumberer : the hght that surrounded 
its death-bed, and which was irradiated fi-om heaven. It 
carries us back to the time when the dead was living ; 
and while it revives the sorrow that attended its death 
and burial, it awakens a crowd of cherished memories 
which are essential to the happiness of a true mourner. 
It is like the light of the glowing sunset, which 
awakens a sad thought of the pleasures of the past day 
that can never return, while its radiant and melancholy 
beams glow prophetically with the assurance of another 
morn, which will be ushered by the same celestial hues. 
Then do we feel that the purest joys of the soul are not 
those which are experienced in the bright sunshine of 
our day ; but that the melancholy that accompanies our 
reflections, when we think of past joys and departed 
friends, purifies and exalts our happiness, and is blended 
with something that seems born of heaven. 

The sight of the grave of an infant is affecting, even 
to a stranger, who seldom beholds one without the re- 
vival of a host of affecting remembrances. He thinks of 
bereaved affection, of innocence suffering on the bed of 
sickness, of a soul that is lost to the world, and of pa- 
12* 



138 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



rental grief that must endure forever. It is on the bosom 
of such a grave, that a Httle wild flower meekly rising 
from the green turf, has a charm beyond all the devices 
of art, and a significance that leads the mind to a closer 
communion with nature and -the Deity. If the spirit of 
the departed could communicate with the living, how 
delightful would be the messages conveyed by this little 
flower, with its meek-eyed representation of innocence, 
and its emblematical expression of immortality. 

When we look upon the graves of children, and reflect 
upon their unseasonable death, we cannot avoid the be- 
lief that there must be some bright reversion of their fate 
in reserve for their spirits, and that they who were per- 
mitted to live but a few brief years or daj^s, and then 
returned to dust, must receive a blessed recompense in 
heaven. It may be that they are earlier in their com- 
mencement of a new and happier life ; and thus the 
cruelty of death, which deprived them of the joys of the 
world, may be in reality but the kindness of Providence, 
in opening to them prematurely the gates of immortality. 

It is a common belief of Christians that some good 
arises out of every affliction. This is not merely a re- 
ligious, but a philosophic sentiment. If I had not lost an 
infant brother in my youth, nor met with any similar 
affliction, I am confident that I should have remained, 
during all that period of life, a stranger to some of the 
purest affections that flowed from this fountain of sorrow. 
With that infant brother, though his death was followed 
by the most profound grief, are associated some deep 
thoughts that would perhaps have remained latent through 
life, untfl called forth by the sorrows of after years. 
They might never have taken root in the mind. I 
could not, at so early an age, have experienced those 
rapturous visions that flow from our ponderings on whence 



GKAVES OF CHILDREN. 



139 



the departed spirit had flown. All that imagined world 
of bliss that lies far off in the futnre, which we call 
heaven, and believe to be allied with the beauties and 
sublimities of an etherial landscape, is made more vivid 
to the mind by the death of a near friend, during the 
religious and imaginative period of youth, especially if 
the lost one be an inftmt, Avho is the image of perfect 
innocence, and the fit inhabitant of a world of peace. 

Hence one can never behold the closed eyes, the 
pallid form, and the serene countenance of a dead child, 
without being keenly reminded of all his most pleasing 
dreams of heaven. We think of a pure spirit released at 
an early period from the struggling life of this world, to 
join the company of angels in some more blissful sphere ; 
and we feel that death, which alone can confer Immortal 
powers upon the soul of a mortal being, is all the change 
required to transform an infant into a winged cherub. 
The same thoughts are awakened by the sight of an in- 
fant's grave. The flowers that cluster round this dimin- 
utive hillock, always seem brighter and holier than those 
we find in the open field, or by the roadside. 

I shall never cease to regret, therefore, the present 
custom of levelling the ground above the graves, and of 
leavino; jio risino- mounds in our modern cemeteries, to 
denote the spot where the mortal remains are entombed. 
There is a picturesque charm about these funereal mounds, 
wdiich no design in marble can supply in the place of 
them. Even the sculptured figure of the child reposing 
in a niche in the monument, would not be more expres- 
sive, nor awaken more romantic images, nor invest the 
place with more sacredness, than the little hillock that 
measures the leniith of the coffin undei-neath the sods. 



MOUNT AUBURN. 

THE SPIRIT'S QUESTIONINGS. 

By Mary Howitt. 

Where sliall I meet thee, 

Thou beautiful one ? 
Where shall I find thee, 

For aye who art gone ? 

AVhat is the shape 

To thy dear spirit given ? 
Where is thy home 

In the infinite heaven ? 

I see thee, but still 

As thou wert upon earth, 
In thy bodied delight. 

In thy wonder and niirtli I 

But now thou art one 
Of the glorified band, 

Who have touched the shore 
Of the far spirit land ! 

And thy shape is fair, 

And thy locks are bright, 

In the livino; stream 

Of the quenchless light. 

And thy spirit's thought 

It is pure and free 
From darkness and doubt 

And from mystery ! 



THE SPIRIT S QUESTIONINGS. 

And thine ears have drunk 

The awful tone 
Of the First and Last, 

Of the Ancient One ! 

And the dwellers old 
Thy steps have met, 

Where the lost is found 
And the past is yet. 

Where shall I find thee, 
For aye who art gone ? 

Where shall I meet thee, 
Thou beautiful one? 



141 



KNIGHT MONUMENT. 

This mouiiment is a somewliat curious pointed design, surmounted by 
a cross. It was erected to the memory of a wife, as shown by the in- 
scription given below. It is exquisitely executed in granite, so finely 
wrought as to rival the workmanship of the marble slab in front. The 
front panel bears the following inscription: — 

" KNIGHT. 

A TRIBUTE OF AFFECTION, SACKED TO THE WEJIOEY OF ELIZABETH 
S. KNIGHT. 1852." 

Upon a marble tablet in front, is a device of two joined hands, with 
a cross over them, bearing the inscription, " One Lord, one Faith, one 
Baptism." Everything about this monument, — the fence, the steps in 
front, — beai's evidence of a seriousness of purpose which cannot but 
impress the beholder that it is a most sincere " tribute of affection." 



i' 






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4 'V 


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pt ^ 


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ANCIENT UUKIAL. 140 

ANCIENT BURIAL. 

By Mrs. Stone. 

The care and tendance usnally bestowed on tins mor- 
tal part, when laid to rest and to wait in hope, is a sub- 
ject which more or less occupies the attention of all 
thoughtful people. After reading of the barbarous 
usages of savage nations, or the elaborate rites of culti- 
vated ones, of the vagaries of fanaticism, or the strange 
fancies into which poor untaught human nature has been 
beguiled, — we turn with thankful reverence to the se- 
rene, simple, and hopeful observances which Christianity 
teaches, when "man goeth to his long home, and the 
mourners go about the streets." 

Volume upon volume would hardly suffice to exem- 
plify fully such usages, but these few notices, culled in 
no irreverent spirit, and with no careless hand, from 
memorials which have met my view, may, I venture to 
hope, be found acceptable and interesting. 

Brief indeed must be our general references ; and here, 
even on the very threshold of inquiry, we are stopped ; 
for when that " reaper whose name is Death," gathered 
the first-fruits of his human harvest, we have no record, 
no trace, no intimation of the proceedings of the then 
wretched first couple, in regard to the remains of their 
murdered son. Probably he was laid in the earth ; for 
there is a tradition, rife to this day, that his bereaved 
parent Adam was buried on Mount Calvary ; on the 
very place — that the tradition may lose no point — on 
which the Redeemer's cross was afterwards elevated ; 
and we are told by a recent traveller, that Golgotha, the 
place of a skull, was so named, because Adam's was 



144 MOUNT AUBURN. 

found there, he having desired to be bui'ied, where he 
knew, prophetically, the blood of the Saviour should, in 
due time, be shed. 

Such a tradition as this is indeed more curious than 
important, more interesting than trustworthy ; but it 
refers to a requisition of humanity, which never was, 
never can be regarded with indifference. 

" Give me possession of a burying place, that I may 
bury my dead out of my sight," said the great patriarch 
to the sons of Heth : a stern necessity — a peremptory 
duty throughout the whole earth,- from the death of the 
first man to the babe of to-day, — fi'om the beginning of 
time even until its end ; one, too, which touches all the 
higher and nobler sympathies of our nature, one regard- 
ed by the wisest with pious reverence, and by the most 
ignorant with superstitious awe, and which by all is 
marked with ceremonial observances, as varied almost as 
the diverse nations who people the globe. 

The Egyptians exhavisted all their skill and science in 
a futile attempt to preserve the perishable body — futile, 
for though, as recent experiment has proved, 

" The wheat three thousand years interred 
Will still its harvest bear," 

it is not so with man's mortal frame. The revolting and 
discolored heap, which is the most successful result of all 
their vain exertion, crumbles to dust instantly on ex- 
posure to the air. 

This custom of embalming originated, perhaps, in the 
opinion which we are told they held, that so long as a 
body remained uncorrupted, so long the soul continued 
within it ; and this idea accounts also for their fi'equent 
custom — so terrible to us — of keeping the dead in their 
own habitation. Certainly, it was their opinion that 



AKCIENT BURIAL. 145 

of the many thousand years, the soul re-inhabits the 
body, if it be preserved entire. 

The Greeks very often, though not universally, buried 
their dead, and interred the ashes in urns of more or 
less expense, surrounded with trophies more or less 
costly, mingled with coin and jewels more or less valuable, 
as circumstances might warrant ; and the cinerary urns 
of the Romans, their imitators, are become almost com- 
mon to our sight ; though the earlier practice of this 
people was probably to bury, not burn. It is said that 
the latter mode was adopted, when it was found that in 
protracted wars, the dead remained disinterred. In the 
fourth century after Christ, cremation was entirely su- 
perseded by burial. 

The richly and elaborately adorned sepulchral cham- 
bers of Etruria, wherein the domestic household was 
imitated and all the usual circumstances of life portrayed, 
and the highly decorated mummy tombs of Egypt, all 
attest the same anxiety, reverence and most earnest care 
for the dead, in nations of the hio;liest learnino- and cul- 
tivation, which strike us even through the strange and 
barbarous rites and customs of savage hordes. Strano-e, 
indeed, and most barbarous, are many of these. We 
can only briefly refer to a few of them. 

The people near the Ganges lay their dead along the 
banks at high water mark, for the tide to carry them 
away, having first filled their mouths with sacred earth. 
This river is considered very holy, and pious Hindoos 
implore to be carried there in their dying agonies, be- 
lieving that their sins are washed away by the sacred 
waters. 

Throughout parts of Hindostan, when all hopes of 
recovery are over, the dying person is laid on the earth, 
that he may expire on the element from which he was 
13 



146 MOUNT AUBURN. 

originally formed. The male relatives attend the corpse 
to the funeral-pile, and the ashes are sprinkled with milk 
and consecrated water brouoht from the Ganges or some 
other holy stream. 

Universally, almost, even among savage hordes, deep 
reverence is attached to places of burial. In the Tonga 
islands, the deadliest enemies chancing to meet there, 
mutually refrain from hostility. The burial places of 
people of note in New Zealand are universally sacred. 

Among the Jews sepulchres appear to have been caves 
hollowed out, or those natural ones which abound in 
the rocks of Palestine. These were kept whitewashed, 
at least such as were appropriated to public burial. 
Family ones were often contiguous to the residence ; 
Abraham's was at the end of his field ; that belonging to 
Joseph of Arimathea, where our Saviour was laid, was 
in his garden. The tombs of the kings of Judah were in 
Jerusalem, and in the royal gardens ; those of the kings 
of Israel, in Samaria. All were regarded with great 
reverence ; for that a man should not come to the tomb 
of his fathers is a denunciation of Holy Writ. 

" He shall be buried with the burial of an ass," was the 
curse of the greatest horror uttered against the chosen 
people of God ; and that this horror is inherent in our 
nature, is evident from the prevalence of it m all ages 
and climes. One of the most celebrated writers of anti- 
quity has bequeathed us a fine illustration of this feeling 
in his beautiful tragedy of Antigone, when Polynices is 
refused the rites of sepulture, and his sister, at the risk 
of a fearful doom, — which indeed she undergoes, — rev- 
erently buries his corpse. Indeed, it was considered the 
height of impiet}^, to leave even a stranger corpse un- 
buried, though met only by chance. This general ob- 
ligation of one of the first of moral laws, was heightened 



ANCIENT BURIAL. 147 

in Antigone, by every feeling of relationship, affection, 
pity, horror, and dismay. 

There was a law of Athens compelling the bnrial of a 
dead body found by accident, and pronouncing the re- 
fusal impious. It was reckoned infamous to disturb a 
grave ; the punishment of death was awarded to slaves 
and the lower classes for disturbing a corpse ; persons of 
rank incurred the forfeiture of half their property thereby. 

" When I inter a dead body," says Seneca, " though I 
never saw or knew the party when he was alive, I de- 
serve nothing for my so doing, since I do but discharge 
an obligation which I owe to human nature." 

In Holy Writ we read — " Wheresoever thou findest 
the dead, take them and bury them, and I will give thee 
the first place in my resurrection." 

Human sacrifices in honor of the dead, prevail in 
Egypt, Assyria, Etruria, &c. In Greece and Rome, gla- 
diatorial combats were supposed to add dignity to the 
ceremony. Those customs, which in olden time originated 
in the mistaken idea of the necessities of the traveller 
bound to the other world, gradually became merelv 
a vehicle for show and ostentation ; and at length a man's 
rank and wealth were estimated by the number and 
value of the sacrificial offerings at his tomb. 

At a Scythian king's funeral, the mourners disfigured 
themselves, cut off" a piece of their ears, shaved their 
heads, and gashed their arms and faces. It was some 
such type of mourning, I suppose, borrowed probably 
from the Heathen nations, which Moses condemned in 
the children of Israel. 

The remains of the royal Scythian were graced at the 
moment of interment, by the sacrifice of one of his wives, 
his cup-bearer, his cook, his groom, his A^alet, and his 
messenger, who were all stranoled and interred with 



148 MOUNT AUBURN. 

him ; and a few months afterwards, fifty native Scythian 
slaves and fifty fine horses were strangled, and placed as 
trophies, or ornament arounds his barrow. 

BarroAvs, or immense mounds of earth, are supposed to 
be the most ancient and the most general sepulchral 
monuments in the world. They are found in almost 
every part of the habitable globe, having been preserved, 
doubtless, in many instances, by the custom almost 
universal, of each passer by throwing a stone on the 
mass. There are a great many barrows in England, 
where the relics of animals are mingled with those of 
human kind ; but, indeed, the contents of these tumuli 
are as varied as are the habits of the different people 
Avho occupy the world. 

Dr. Clarke, speaking of the barrows in Russia, says : — 
" Throughout the whole of this country are seen, dis- 
persed over immense plains, mounds of earth covered 
with fine turf, the sepulchres of the ancient world, com- 
mon to almost every habitable country. If there exist 
anything of former times which may afford monuments 
of antediluvian manners, it is this mode of burial." 

In the New World barrows are the inseparable ap- 
pendages to great settlements. They are of various forms, 
proportions and sizes. They are called Indian graves ; 
and one in Virginia was opened which contained the 
bones of nearly one hundred persons. 

This mode of burial w\as gi'adually discontinued in 
every country, as civilization increased and refinement 
advanced. The barrows raised over the remains of 
Patroclus, Hector, Achilles, and other Homeric heroes 
of wide-world renown, have been described and quoted 
by writers innumerable. But in later days, while the 
tomb of the accomplished Greek was adorned with all 
the pride of exquisite sculpture, and celebrated with all 



ANCIENT BURIAL. 



149 



the pathos of elegiac strain ; and whilst the magnificent 
Roman was raising cenotaphs over the remains of friends 
inurned with all the pomp and circumstance of woe, the 
Briton continued the rude usages of the Celts and the 
Belgas. Many of the large isolated barrows in waste 
lands, opened in Great Britain, contain urns and burnt 
bones ; others, bones in their natural state, the body 
having been buried without burning. The former are 
guessed to be Belgic Gauls ; the latter the Celtic Britons, 
a more primitive people, who adopted the most early 
rites of burial. 

Not wanting in solemn pomp, in gorgeous ceremonial, 
in mystic and awful incantation, but yet reeking with 
human sacrifice and unhallowed rite, was the religion of 
our ancestors in Britain, before the " tidings of great 
joy " had reached our shores — ere " the beautiful feet " 
of the Messenger had alighted on the blood-stained 
mountains. 

The learning and wisdom of the Druids have been 
largely descanted on ; and there was certainly much to 
lay hold of the imagination in a cultivated mind, much to 
impress with awe and terror an ignorant one, in their 
religious solemnities. The deep, vast and solemn groves, 
in which these mysteries were celebrated ; the circle of 
huge altar stones, near each of which stood the atten- 
dant priest, ready to ignite the blue flame which at one 
and the same instant gleamed on all ; the Arch Druid, 
majestic in his gait, venerable in his appearance, waving 
the asphodel aloft, near the mystical rocking stone, or 
stabbing to the heart the noble milk-white bull, as a pro- 
pitiatory sacrifice to an " unknown God," whilst circling 
around were priestly bands, sweeping with solemn harps, 

" Amid the hush of ages which are dead ; " 

13 • 



150 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



looking triumphant strains- which rang out gloriously to 
the skies, or chanting mournful dirges which stole trem- 
ulously along the forest glades, mingling Avith the pure 
and gentle breath of evening in "a dying, dying fall " — 
all this is certainly beautiful as a picture ; but it is only an 
attractive portal to the temple of a religion, ruthless and 
cruel as bigotry and untamed nature could devise. Not 
amongst these beiruiling accessories were maxims of 
peace, of dignity, of brotherly kindness taught to the 
loving ; nor a futui'e hope breathed in the stricken ear of 
the mourner ; or a message of pardon and peace whis- 
pered to soothe tlie agony of the dying. 

The poor man, without future hope, or death-bed 
prayer, — 

" Unshriven, unanointed, unaneled, " — 
was buried with scant ceremony in a shroud of woolen 
fastened with a wooden pin, in a hole dug by the side of 
a hill, or on a waste flat ; while a little mound of soil or 
turf was heaped upon the spot, or perhaps some common 
stones — the commonest and smallest of barrows. 

When a person of more consequence died, his horse 
and favorite domestic animals, and perhaps too his ser- 
vants, were burned around his funeral pyre. The re- 
mains were buried in a stone chest or kistrean, which 
was composed of five large flat stones, the fifth forming 
the lid. Sometimes this was placed upon a hill or bar- 
row ; very frequently a hill or barrow was built over it, 
made of earth, with large stones set round about. 

Kings and nobles were distinguished by a barrow of 
greater height and larger dimensions, often surmounted 
by a monument of one enormous flat stone, raised on 
three or four upright ones. Hubba, the Dane, was buried 
under a veiy large barrow in Devonshire. We are told 
of another Dane who employed his whole army, and a 



CHRISTIAN BURIAL. 151 

number of oxen, to place an immense stone on the tumu- 
nis of liis mother. 

There are laro-e numbers of barrows scattered over 
England, and especially clustered in Wiltshire. A great 
many have been opened ; some containing unburnt skel- 
etons ; others, such as have evidently undergone the 
action of fire. Besides human remains, there have been 
found animals of all sorts, from the skeleton of a horse to 
that of a fowl ; all imaginable warlike instruments, do- 
mestic utensils, or ornamental trifles, from a battle-spear 
or a pole-axe, to a bit of amber or a row of glass beads — 
from an iron torques, or a silver or gold bracelet, to an 
ivory hook or crystal ball. 

But happy are we to turn from these slight though 
painful memorials of heathenism, to that long predicted 
period when the Day-star from on high beamed over the 
earth, and the mild rays of Christian hope penetrated 
the darkness and gloom, which had hitherto shrouded the 
borders of the erave. 



CHRISTIAN BURIAL. 

By Mrs. Stone. 

It cannot excite our surprise that under the early 
impetus, the first impulse of the certainty to resurrection 
and the hope of a happy eternity, the consignment to the 
tomb was denuded of many of the dismal and dis- 
heartening circumstances which attached to the formula 
of paganism. The earliest Christians were, probably, be- 
cause of the bitter ])ersecution to which they were sub- 
jected in the performance of their rites, obliged to bury 



152 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



ill secrecy and in darkness, under cover of the night ; 
but only for that reason was night-time chosen — for in 
principle — 

" With tapers in the face of day, 
These rites their faithful hope display ; 

In long procession slow. 
With hymns that fortify the heart, 
And prayers that soften woe." 

In Pagan rites by night, torches were necessarily 
borne, but the early Christians used them in fall day- 
light, as emblems of joyful hope. To these we shall 
refer more fully. 

Instead of hired mourners' shrilly, keening, dismal 
strains, they carried the corpse to the grave, the face 
bare, chanting psalms and hymns, not of the lugubrious 
strain now so usual, the " dirges due " alike real and 
poetical, but of hope, of joy, of holy anticipation ; re- 
ferring rather to the glory hereafter, than to the bereave- 
ment now. Their rites, though performed Avitli humility, 
and chastened it may be, by tears, did yet assume some- 
what of triumphant aspect, which relieved those most 
closely connected, most severely bereaved, from some of 
the bitterest feelings of separation. 

And these solemn offerings of prayer and praise were 
invariably accompanied by alms-giving ; the poor and 
needy were always remembered. This was the origin 
of those " Funeral Doles " which afterwards became a 
component part of a respectable person's funeral. 

From the time that Constantine ascended the throne, 
the Christians had free privilege to inter their dead, and 
they performed these rites in the open day. Before this 
time, it was a refinement in cruelty with their persecu- 
tors, to interfere with the sacred duty of burial. 



CHRISTIAN BURIAL. 153 

In reverence to Him, who assumed the body of man 
for oiir salvation, wlio sitteth at the right hand of his 
Father on high, and who sliall come again in tlie body 
to judge the quick and the dead for their deeds done in 
the flesh, — in reverence to this, and to the close con- 
nection between the body lowered into the grave, and 
the one that shall arise from it — the early Christians 
were always anxious, if possible, to lay the whole body, 
unmutilated, in the earth ; especially considering, what 
is too often lost sight of, that the dead, tlie holy dead, 
are in the communion of the saints still and forever. 

If we remember that even among Pagan nations, this 
" corporeal act of mercy," the burial of the dead, was not 
only considered a pereinptory duty by the thoughtful, 
but was enforced by legal enactments on the observance 
of the most careless ; it will not excite surprise, that, under 
the elevating influence of the Christian doctrine of the 
resurrection of the body, it should receive a reverence 
unknown and unnecessary, when it was considered mere- 
ly as a piece of corruption, a decaying carcase. Now 
this outer covering was reverenced as the temple of the 
Holy Spirit, as the germ whence should spring a scion 
ripe for immortality. Therefore was the body watched 
and tended with solemn, unremitting, reverent care ; 
therefore was it never left from the death-hour, to that 
of its commitment to the grave ; therefore was it borne 
thither with all the amenities of honorable tendance ; 
and therefore, finally, was it committed to the dust with 
psalms and hymns of faith, of reverence, of hope, of 
anticipated re-union. 

That the early Christians very commonly used the pro- 
cess of embalmment, was probably owing to the necessity 
which compelled them in those fearful times, to deposit 
the remains of the dead in the places, close and subter- 



154 MOUNT AUBURN. 

ranean, where tliey were accustomed to nieet periodically 
for worship. 

And yet not this only. Though embalmment was a 
usual custom with the Jews, the Christian practice had, 
perhaps, a hallowed reference to our Saviour, whose 
sacred body they " wound in linen clothes with the spices, 
as the manner of the Jews is to bury " — "a mixture of 
myrrh and aloes, about an hundred pounds weight." 

Their places of burial were called by a general name, 
ccBmete7'ia, " dormitories," or sleeping places, because 
they looked on death as sleep, merely, and the departed 
only, as it were, laid to rest until the resurrection should 
awaken them.* 

Among the classical nations, it was considered shame- 
ful to neglect a corpse, but the early Christians carried 
this charity to a much higher pitch ; and during times 
of persecution, they not only incurred enormous expense, 
but braved great personal risk, in order to obtain for 
burial the bodies of their brethren. When neither 
money nor solicitation would avail, they frequently stole 
them in the night. Entychianus, Bishop of Rome, is 
celebrated in the Martyrology, for having buried three 
hundred and forty-two martyrs in several places with his 
own hands. 

Though luxury, cost, and magnificence (" splendid in 
ashes, j^ompous in the grave,") of course gained ground 
despite the invectives of the early fathers against it, the 
usual flmeral attire was new white linen. They clothed 
the dead in new garments, to signify or prefigure the 
putting on the " new clothing of incorruption." 

By degrees, however, this primitive custom of pro- 

* Requictorium was a term also used : — The bodies are not only 
despoiled of all funereal ornaments, but dug up out of their requiet- 
ories. 



CHRISTIAN BURIAL. 



155 



priety and purity, Ijecame liaLitually, as it had been occa- 
sionally used even from the first. The habits of splendor, 
dignity, and ceremony to wliich persons were habituated 
in their life-time, were borne even into the tomb. Thus 
emperors and kings were interred in their imperial and 
royal robes ; knights in their military garments ; bishops 
were laid in the grave in their episcopal habits ; priests 
in their sacerdotal vestments ; and monks in the dress of 
the particular order to which they belonged. An ancient 
ritual of the monastery of Silos in Spain, expressly orders 
that the deceased be habited suitably to their rank in life. 

Various customs obtained indeed, from time to time, 
which had been better honored in the neglect than the 
observance, such, for instance, as that in the old time of 
burying the priors of Durham in their boots. A decent 
uniformity of attire has now superseded these unbecom- 
ing customs. 

Lights were carried before the dead as symbols of the 
glory to which they aspired; to signify also that they 
were champions or conquerors, and as such conducted in 
triumph to their graves. We have a record of a mother 
carrying a torch in her hand before the body of her son ; 
the bishops themselves carried torches around the bier of 
the Lady Paula ; the mangled body of St. Cyprian was 
buried with great pomp, many torches being borne 
around. St. Gregory of Nanzianzen, says, that at the 
funeral of his sister Macrina, a great number of deacons 
and clergy walked on each side the coffin carrying 
torches ; and when the body of St. Chrysostom was re- 
moved from Comana to Constantinople, " there was such 
a multitude of people met him in ships in his passage 
over tlie Bosphorus, that the sea was covered with 
lamps." 

The corpse was usually carried to burial on the 



156 MOUNT AUBUKN. 

shoulders of friends ; and the highest order of clergy 
thought it no reproach to their dignity to carry the bier. 
At the funeral of Lady Paula, bishops were what we 
now call under-bearers. There were strict regulations 
regarding the practice. Deacons were to carry deacons, 
and priests to be the bearers of priests. Women were 
never allowed to act as under-bearers. 

When a bishop died, it was usual to carry his corpse 
into several churches, before it was borne to its last 
resting place. The body was usually laid on a bed of 
ivy, or laurel, or other evergreen. Gregory of Tours, 
says, that the bishop of St. Valerian, was laid in his 
tomb on abed of laurel leaves. 

The poor were buried in coffins of plain wood, at the 
common charge of the church ; but this duty was not 
left to indiscriminate care. Early in the fourth century, 
two classes were instituted, whose specific vocation was 
to solace the sick, and pay dvie and requisite attention to 
the dead. The one were called parabola?ii, from the 
ventui'ing their lives among the sick in contagious dis- 
orders ; the other, copiatcB, laborantes, lecticarii, fossarii^ 
and decani, whose ofiice was to dig graves for the poor, 
carry the coffins, deposit them in the ground, &c., as 
most of the names signify. 

These officers, kept then under the rigid discipline and 
surveillance of the church, are the progenitors of the 
fruitful progeny of undertakers, sextons, &c., who in these 
days cause many a heart-broken person to count with 
despair, the few coins in a purse, which, perhaps, has 
been impoverished by the hand of God himself, in heavy, 
long, lingering sickness. 

The body of the departed Christian was, as we have 
observed, always reverently watched by prayerful friends, 
from the hour of death to that of interment ; sometimes 



CHRISTIAN BURIAL. 157 

in the house, more often in the church. The corpse of 
St. Ambrose was carried to the church and watched 
there ; that of Monica was tended night and day in her 
own house. Gregory Nyssen writes, that over the re- 
mains of his sister Macrina, " they watched and sung 
psahns all night, as they were used to do on the vigils or 
pernoctations preceding the festivals of the martyrs." 

When the period for interment came, the corpse was 
carried to the grave with psalmody, torches being borne 
around. 

Funerals were not merely denuded of gloom and sad- 
ness, but were invested with somewhat of jubilant eclat. 
Sorrow there must have been, but it was grief without 
bitterness. In the wonderfial light which newly beamed 
from Calvary, the Christians, " the first-born of a young 
faith," in their unlooked-for and exceeding joy, thought 
more practically than we, that death was but the dark 
passage, which carried their lost relative from their view, 
to the presence of his Saviour, to the society of their 
friends and brethren, to the companionship of the just 
and good of eternal ages. He was, in that hour, they 
felt, — he was but " gone before." 

Such versicles as these they chanted on their way to 
the grave : — 

" Return to thy rest, O my soul, for the Lord hath 

rewarded thee." 

" The memory of the just shall be blessed." 

" The souls of the righteous are in the hands of God.' 

" I will fear no evil, because thou art with me." 

" Precious in the sio;ht of the Lord is the death of his 

saints." 

" Hallelujah ! Thou art the resurrection. Thou, O 

Christ." 

14 



158 MOUNT AUBURN. 

None was denied this privilege of psalmody at tlie 
funeral, except suicides, or criminals who were publicly 
executed, or those who died in the wilful neglect of holy 
baptism. 

If the life of the departed, or his character, had been 
marked by any circumstginces available as example to 
others, some few words were spoken as a just memorial 
of his merit, and with reference to him as a pattern to 
those around. Several of those funeral orations, made 
in the early ages of Christianity, are still extant. 

If the interment were in the forenoon, the Avhole ser- 
vice of the church was gone through, and the Holy 
Eucharist was administered ; if it were in the afternoon, 
the psalmody and prayers only, accompanied by the more 
especial funeral service. 

This service consisted of hvmns of thanksmvino; for the 
deceased, with prayer for one entering into that eternal 
rest. The bishop gave solemn thanks to God, for his 
(the departed's) perseverance in the knowledge of God, 
and in his Christian warfare even unto death ; and the 
deacon read such portions of Scripture as contained the 
promises of the resurrection. A hymn to the same pur- 
pose was sung. 

During the celebration of the Holy Communion in 
those days, a solemn commemoration was made of the 
dead in general, and prayers were offered to the Al- 
mighty for them. And this was one especial reason for 
the adoption of this service at burials, because prayers 
were constantly made therein for all holy men and holy 
women departed, among whom was especially named 
him about to be committed to the grave. 

The kiss of peace is spoken of, and the anointing with 
holy oil, as the last rites of all ; but these seem not to 
have been always observed. It was very usual to strew 



CHRISTIAN BURIAL. 159 

flowers on the grave ; and no old writer, how rigid 
soever, has reprobated this innocent, beautiful, and most 
suggestive custom. 

And so fulfilled with the grace and benediction of 
Him whom they had learned to know of their Father in 
Heaven, as their Redeemer to all eternity, in faith and 
hope, in the exercise of prayer and almsgiving, the early 
Christians were enabled to give hearty thanks to God, 
that he had been pleased to " deliver their brethren out 
of the miseries of this sinful world." 



THE APPLETON MONUMENT. 

This monument stands in Woodbine Path, and was erected by Mr. 
Samuel Appleton, of Boston. It is a miniature Grecian Temple, of fine 
Italian marble, surmounted by funereal lamps, with appropriate devices 
on its fa(jade. It is the work of Italian artists. 



EPITAPHS AND INSCRIPTIONS. 161 



EPITAPHS AND INSCRIPTIONS. 

Every person of intelligence and sensibility is alive to 
the beauties of a brief, simple, and appropriate epitaph 
which excites a reverence for the dead, and awakens an 
interest in the events of his life. When we encounter a 
headstone without an epitaph, it seems like a book with a 
mere title page, while the leaves that follow are blank. It 
is an indispensable appendage to a monument, and we 
turn from one that is without it as from a work of sculp- 
ture that is unfinished. The propriety of this ti'ibute to 
the dead is universally admitted ; and it is not, therefore, 
a useless task to endeavor to define the principles by 
which the composition of it should be governed ; for if 
one that is appropriate and well written, is pleasing to the 
most indifferent reader, one that is awkward, high- 
soundincr or exasfgerated, is ludicrous and demeanino; to 
the character of the subject. 

There are some epitaphs that relate particularly to the 
dead, and are commonly panegyrical ; others that make 
no direct allusion to the dead, but aim merely to convey 
a pleasing sentiment or an instructive moral. The 
former are the most difficult Avork for the Avriter ; be- 
cause it requires great discrimination, in elegiac compo- 
sition, to avoid the extreme of panegyric, or to present, 
in a few words, the most appropriate thoughts and images, 
and to select those points which would produce the most 
vivid effect upon the mind of the reader. If one is extrav- 
agant in his praises of the dead, the reader is sceptical of 
the truth of those praises ; if the epitaph be long, it will 
not be read ; and though it were brief, the points selected 
may not be those which would produce the most favor- 
ableimpression. 

14* 



162 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



It has been the custom among writers of epitaphs to 
aim at antithesis ; to express pointed thoughts in ap- 
posite words and phrases. This is the surest method of 
clothing a commonplace thought, or a trite image, with 
the appearance of originality ; but this style of writing 
is too artificial to seem to flow from the heart. When 
the composition is evidently studied, it loses its charm 
for the reader ; though he may know at the same time, 
that the most pleasing simplicity is often the result of 
great art and elaboration. When one reflects that the 
living friend could write nothing of the deceased except 
a pointed epigram, he is prone to imagine that, as there 
was nothing in his character to be praised, he was com- 
memorated only by a witticism. Sincere praise is often 
exaggerated, but never pointed and rhetorical. 

" The dirticulty," says Dr. Johnson, " in writing epi- 
taphs, is to give a particular and appropriate praise. 
This, however, is not always to be performed ; for the 
greater part of mankind have little that distinguishes 
them from others equally good or bad ; and, therefore, 
nothing can be said of them, AVhich may not, with equal 
propriety, be applied to a thousand more. It is, indeed, 
no great panegyric, that there is inclosed in this tomb, 
one who was born in one year, and who died in another ; 
yet many useful and amiable lives have been spent, which 
leave little materials for any other memorial. These, 
however, are not the proper subjects of poetry ; and 
whenever friendship or any other motive obliges a poet 
to write on such a subject, he must be forgiven if he 
sometimes wanders in generalities, and utters the same 
praises over different tombs. 

The scantiness of human praises can scarcely be made 
more apparent, than by remarking how often Pope has, 
in the few epitaphs which he composed, found it neces- 



EPITAPHS AND INSCRIPTIONS. 163 

sary to borrow from himself. The fourteen epitaphs 
which he has written-, comprise about one hundred and 
forty lines, in which there are more repetitions than will 
easily be found in all the rest of his works." 

But the evil arising from the repetition of a thought, 
which has been frequently expressed in other composi- 
tions of the same kind, has been greatly exaggerated ; 
and there are many ideas that would be very appropriate, 
which are not contained in the compositions of Pope, 
who fell into the error of aiming to be pointed and an- 
tithetical, and to end his pieces in a climax. Hence, 
there are many natural and appropriate thoughts which 
he was obliged to reject, because they could not be woven 
into the pointed style of his compositions. Among the 
inscriptions to be found in our country graveyards, are 
many that are pi-eferable to any epigrammatic verses, 
which are sadly wanting in simplicity and pathos. Any 
man's life may afford a lesson to others ; and if that life 
was a virtuous 'one, a few words announcing this fact, 
expressed neither in rhyme nor metaphor, may produce 
a deep impression upon the mind of the reader. 

" He liA^ed in peace, because he Avas just ; " 

" He died in hope, because he was a Christian." 

These lines convey no fulsome panegyric, and yet no 
higher praise could be bestowed upon one in so few 
Avords. They contain a two-fold moral, showing the 
advantage of justice to secure a life of peace, and of a 
belief in Christianity, to die with a hope of Heaven. 

A part of the difficulty, attending the composition of 
epitaphs, arises from the effort of the writer, to express 
ideas and images which are not obvious, without con- 
sidering that this effort, if it be apparent, spoils all their 



164 MOUNT AUBURN. 

effect. It is not the liigliest praise that is most exaggera- 
ted, for high praise expressed in plain and simple terms, 
if it produces conviction in the mind of the reader, gives 
rise to no invidious feelings. A smaller amount of eulogy- 
conveyed in high-sounding language, betrays the wish of 
the writer to raise his subject to an undue importance, 
and fails in producing conviction, because it excites our 
incredulity. An epitaph should always contain more 
eulogy than is apparent, like a strong and even light that 
illuminates a room without dazzling the eyes. 

It has been customary, at certain times, to omit any 
inscription upon the tomb, except the name and age of 
the deceased, and perhaps some other indispensable rec- 
ords. This neglect probably originated in a conscious- 
ness of the abuse which has been made of epitaphs ; their 
extravagance in some instances, and their triteness or 
absurdity in others. These evils were tliought to be 
avoided by omitting the epita])h entirely. But if one 
objects to the panegyrical epitaph, he might use the 
other form, in which a sentiment or a moral is merely 
recorded upon the tomb, without particular mention of 
the character or history^ of the subject. Such is that 
common, but most appropriate and delightful sentiment, 
which has lost nothing by repetition, and is often in- 
scribed upon the tombstone of a little child : — 

" Not lost, but gone before." 

There is still another form of epitaph in which the 
person commemorated is represented as speaking. These 
different forms of inscription seem to give variety to the 
expression of the same ideas ; and as one form is not 
absolutely preferable to another, the writer should be 
governed in his choice by his own taste. Of the last 



EPITAPHS AND INSCRIPTIONS. 



165 



description is the common Latin epitaph — " Sum quod 
eris.fui quod sis.' ' "I am what thou shalt be, I was 
what thou art." This verse communicates only a trite 
and common piece of information. It is neither pleasing 
nor poetical, but it is somewhat impressive, from the 
hint it conveys to be prepared for death. Poetry and 
religion are so nearly allied, that an epitaph, if it be re- 
ligious, can hardly be otherwise than poetical, unless it 
conveys a gloomy impression of our future state. If it 
contains neither a religious nor a moral sentiment, it is 
no better than a mere blank. 

Whether the reader be a believer or an unbeliever, he 
is pleased with a verse that suggests an idea of the soul's 
immortality. He loves to indulge this sentiment as a 
poetical illusion, if he cannot make it a point of his faith, 
or the true foundation of his hopes. The idea of " death 
and eternal sleep," though it be a part of some men's be- 
lief, could not fail to affect the same persons wntli horror, 
as an inscription on a tombstone. It was only during the 
anti-religious excitement of the French Revolution, that 
the most philosophic atheist could endure such a senti- 
ment, when blazoned upon a sepulchral monument. In 
the unexcited moments of such a man's life, he would 
prefer the religious epitaph based on the idea of the soul's 
release from mortal bondage, into the celestial enjoyment 
of a new life, though he recognized it only as a flattering 
image of poetry. 

The themes which, by general consent, are regarded as 
the proper subjects for an epitaph, are the virtues and 
good actions of the deceased ; the lessons which his life 
and death may impart to the living ; the hopes he enter- 
tained of happiness beyond the grave ; rest from the toils 
and cares of this world ; the soul's immortality and en- 
trance into a new life. These are the appropriate sub- 



166 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



jects of discourse in monumental inscriptions ; and there 
seems to be no good reason for rejecting them, on account 
of the difficulty of avoiding the repetition of ideas which 
liave been recorded many times before. The same ob- 
jection might be made to the erection of a headstone over 
the grave of a friend, because a new pattern could not be 
invented. We must not expect the works of art to ex- 
ceed the variety of nature. The forms of trees are 
but the repetitions of resemblances ; but the landscape is 
not rendered tiresome by their similarity. Neither is a 
cemeteiy necessarily tiresome on account of the frequent 
recurrence of similar monumental stones. 

The visitor is not expected to read the inscriptions 
upon all the gravestones. He may read many before he 
meets with a literal repetition of a previous one. If the 
words, " Not lost, but gone before " were inscribed on 
fifty stones in Mount Auburn, a stranger who should 
linger an hour in these grounds might not see them but 
once. As we cannot invent anything new, we must 
be satisfied with presenting an oft-repeated thought in a 
new phase, or by making a new application of it. It 
would be as unwise to leave the stone without an epitaph, 
on account of the difficulty of saying a new thing, as to 
refuse this tribute to a finend, because his virtues were 
not brilliant, but of the humble sort, that do not seem to 
elicit eulogy. These are, indeed, the virtues which are 
the most appropriate themes for monumental inscription. 

It is better to dwell on those general traits of humanity 
which are common to all good men, than to confine the 
epitaph to certain extraordinary qualities. We do not 
come to the grave to study and analyze each person's 
peculiarities of character. We are better pleased with a 
few words, expressing in general terms his virtuous and 
peaceful life, and its happy and hopeful termination, than 



EPITAPHS AND INSCRIPTIONS. 167 

with an epigram or a dissertation. A sentiment conveyed 
in language simple enough to be intelligible to all, banishes 
the suspicion that the writer is endeavoring unjustly to 
exalt the dead above his real merits. The epitaph should 
be simple, that all may understand it ; obvious, that it 
may require no study ; brief, that all may read it ; mod- 
erate, that it may be credited ; poetical, that it may lay 
hold of the imagination ; cheerful, that it may reconcile us 
to our inevitable fate ; religious, that it may inspire the 
hope of a new life. 

An epitaph is of no value, if it does not obtain the 
faith and the sympathy of the general reader. For this 
end it should give proof of the writer's own deep feeling 
and sincerity. He must address the reader, therefore, as 
a humble friend of the departed, and not as a sermonist or 
a censor. He must be serious and solemn, but not 
gloomy ; believing and hopeful, but not extravagantly 
elated. His lamentations must be heartfelt, but not too 
painfully wrought ; for the reader, though he loves to 
sympathize, does not wish to be afflicted. We sympathize 
more easily with sorrow that is sincere without despon- 
dency ; for we wish to see a probability that the mourner 
will obtain relief and a renewal of happiness, as we are de- 
lighted with the promise of morning that gleams through 
the darkness of night. An epitaph should make no pa- 
rade of one's lamentations, any more than of the virtues 
of the subject. As a silent tear flowing down the cheek 
of an unquestionable mourner, excites more sympathy 
than boisterous wailing, so does one line of tender an- 
guish affect the sensibility of the reader more deeply than 
a long paragraph of earnest complaint. 

A sepulchral monument is no place for wit or for 
satire. We may be excited to mirth by a humorous 
epitaph upon a gravestone ; but it interrupts the flow of 



MOUNT AUBURN. 

tender melanclioly wliich one is disposed to cherish in his 
meditations among the tombs. It disqualifies the mind 
to receive congenial impressions, and does not avert 
gloomy reflections with the same power as the hopeful 
utterance of religious faith. Satire, which is always 
more or less malignant, ought to find no place here. 
Anything like malice or contempt towards our fellow 
beings, should never be exhibited in these sacred inclos- 
ures. The sight of the graves of our fellow men brings 
forcibly to mind the reflection that we are all travelling 
the same road ; and here we should unite in mutual 
trust and forbearance ; and if we have lessons to impart 
to the living in the lines which we carve upon the monu- 
ments of the dead, let them be conveyed in the simple 
language of love. Let the graveyard be a school of re- 
ligion and virtue, not a place for the wit of the epigram- 
matist or the sneers of the misanthrope. 

Death must be mentioned as our inevitable fate, and as 
the occasion of sorrow ; but not as the cau^e of despon- 
dency, or the destroyer of hope. The tomb should be 
invested with those circumstances that will shed light on 
the gloom of the grave ; and nothing serves more effec- 
tually to difituse this cheerfulness around it, than a 
poetical and hopeful inscription that points to a world 
beyond this mortal sphere. 

The individual commemorated is to be presented to the 
reader as one who has not lived in vain, nor died with- 
out hope ; and the claims upon the reader's interest and 
sympathy should be based on his ordinary, not extraor- 
dinary deserts. The first idea commands our sj^mpathy, 
the second excites our incredulity. If the subject has 
performed certain noble and heroic acts, it is better to 
name the nets, and let them praise him, than to follow 
them with extravagant laudation. To say that one died in 



EPITAPHS AND INSCRIPTIONS. 



169 



his efforts to save others from perishing, is stating a fact 
tliat exalts him to a hero, and no eulogy could elevate the 
reader's idea of his heroism. 

We should cast a veil of charity over the faults of one 
whom we wish to commemorate, and a veil of modest 
claims over the lustre of his virtues, that we may not 
wrong his memory by harsh judgment, nor excite envy 
by praising him with exaggeration. An epitaph is not 
to be a daguerreotype of the character of the dead ; but 
it should resemble an illuminated shadow in which we 
may see a pleasing resemblance to him, that shall ex- 
cite our veneration the more, because of the indistinct- 
ness of its delineations. The more general the praise the 
better, provided its meaning is significant ; for as soon as 
we descend to particular points in our eulogy, we may 
possibly be opposed by the opinion of those who knew the 
subject of it. 

But it is not the virtuous alone who may be made the 
subjects of an affecting epitaph. If the dead has been 
unfortunate on account of his vices, the writer might 
carefully allude to them in some cases, not to hold him 
up to execration, but to mourn over his fate, to hint at 
the virtues which he might have cultivated, and to offer 
a kindly warning to those who are tempted to go astray 
in like manner. All this should be done as we eulogize 
the virtues of a good man, with care and moderation ; 
and so kindly, that the reader may even suppose that a 
brother or sister might have written it, while overwhelmed 
with the kindest as well as the saddest recollections. 



15 



170 MOUNT AUBURN. 

THE BURIAL GROUND AT SIDON. 

By Mary Howitt. 

The burial ground, with the old ruin, supposed to be 
the castle of Louis IX, is without the town ; and the tall 
trees cast their shadows on the sepulchres, some fallen 
and ruined, others newly whited and gilt, covered with 
sentences in the Turkish character, the headstones usu- 
ally presenting a turban on a pedestal. Several women 
had come to mourn over the graves of their relatives, in 
white cloaks and veils that enveloped them from head to 
foot ; they mostly mourned in silence, and knelt on the 
steps of the tomb, or among the wild flowers which grew 
rank on the soil. The morning light fell partially on the 
sepulchres, and on the broken towers of the ancient cas- 
tle ; but the greater part of the thickly-peopled cemetery 
was still in gloom — the gloom which the Orientals love. 
They do not like to come to the tombs in the glare of 
day ; early morn and even are the favorite seasons, es- 
pecially the latter. This burial ground of Sidon is one 
of the most picturesque on the coast of Syria. The ruin 
of Louis, tells, like the sepulchres, that this life's hope and 
pride is as a tale that is told. When the moon is on its 
towers, on the trees and tombs beneath, and on the white 
figures that slowly move to and fro, the scene is solemn, 
and cannot be forgotten. 

The dead are everywhere ! 

The mountain-side, the plain, the woods profound ; 
All the wide earth, — the fertile and the fair, 

Is one vast burial ground ! 



THE BURIAL GROUND AT SIDON. 171 

Within the populous street ; 

In stately homes ; in places high ; 
In pleasure domes where pomp and luxury meet, 

Men bow themselves to die. 

The old man at his door ; 

The unweaned child murmuring its wordless song ; 
The bondman and the free ; the rich, the poor ; 

All, all, to death belong ! 

The sunlight gilds the walls 

Of kingly sepulchres enwrought with brass ; 
And the long shadow of the cypress falls 

Athwart the common grass. 

The living of gone time 

Builded their glorious cities by the sea ; 
And awful in their greatness sat sublime, 

As if no change could be. 

There was the eloquent tongue ; 

The poet's heart ; the sage's soiil was there ; 
And loving women with their children young, 

The faithful and the fair ! 

They were, but they are not ; 

Suns rose and set, and earth put on her bloom, 
Whilst man, submitting to the common lot, 

Went down into the tomb. 

And still amid the wrecks 

Of mighty generations passed away. 
Earth's boonest growth, the fragrant wild-flower decks 

The tombs of yesterday. 



172 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



f 



And in the twilight deep, 

Go veiled women forth, like those who went, 
Sisters of Lazarus, to the grave to weep. 

To breathe the low lament. 

The dead are everywhere ! 

Where'er is love, or tenderness, or faith ; 
Where power, foi^m, pleasure, pride ; where'er 

Life is, or was, is death ! 



HAZEL DELL. 

Two Tombs in Hazel Dell, belonging to C. G. Edwards and John S. 
Wright, consti-ucted of fine granite, with a chaste Grecian front in plain 
style, and calculated for endurance. 



15* 



176 



MOU^JT AUBURN. 



It is evident, that in the moral inference to be drawn 
from surrounding scenery, the hand of a master is re- 
quired, and that the poet should not attempt to say every- 
thing that the view suggests, but rather lead the mind of 
the spectator to a train of associations, which at the 
time appears to be the offspring of his own intellect ; yet 
what would not have been conceived without the original 
hint arising from the inscription. The following is a 
model of this species of inscriptive writing ; in delinea- 
tion, beautiful ; in moral, exquisite : — 

For a Tablet on the Banks of a Stream. 

Stranger ! awhile upon this mossy bank, 
* Recline thee. If the sun ride high, the breeze, 
That loves to ripple o'er the rivulet, 
Will play around thy brow, and the cool sound 
Of running waters soothe thee. Mark how clear 
It sparkles o'er the shallows, and behold 
Where o'er its surface wheels with restless speed 
Yon glossy insect, on the sand below. 
How swift the shadow flies. The stream is pure 
In solitude, and many a healthful herb 
Bends o'er its course, and drinks the vital wave ; 
But passing on amid the haunts of men, 
It finds pollution there, and rolls from thence 
A tainted tide. Seek'st thou for Happiness ? 
Go, stranger, sojourn in the woodland cot 
Of innocence, and thou shalt find her there. 

SOUTHEY. 

Many national advantages might be derived from the 
custom of erecting inscriptions, to perpetuate the memory 
of any remarkable event or deed. Were the efforts of 



ON INSCRIPTIVE WRITING. 177 

the patriot thus cherisherl ; the exertions of tyranny, 
cruelty and oppression, thus held uj) to detestation and 
infamy ; were the spot on which any memorable struggle 
for the welfare or liberty of mankind had occurred, thus 
gratefully consecrated ; fresh motives to excel in all that 
is laudable would be acquired, and the national character, 
perhaps, ameliorated, through the medium of emulation. 
From Southey's Letters on Spain and Portugal, we have 
selected an inscription for the birth-place of Pizarro, 
which is an excellent specimen of what, among other 
moral purposes, pieces of this class should effect — the 
reprehension of cruelty and inordinate ambition. 

iNSCRIPnON FOR A CoLUMN AT TrUXILLO. 

Pizarro here was born ; a greater name 

The list of glory boasts not. Toil, and want, 

And danger, never from his course deterred 

This daring soldier ; many a fight he won ; 

He slaughtered thousands ; he subdued a rich 

And ample realm ; such were Pizarro's deeds ; 

And wealth, and power, and fame, were his rewards 

Among mankind. There is another world. 

O reader ! if you earn your daily bread 

By daily labor, if your lot be low — 

Be hard and wretched, thank the gracious God 

Who made you, that you are not such as he. 

To him who secedes exhausted from the busy world, 
from the tumultuous cares and anxiety of public life, his 
retirement charms in proportion to the force of con- 
trast ; and the rustic shed, and the pastoral hermitage, 
have for a season ii-resistible attractions. The rocky glen 
or deep secluded valley, clothed with wood and watered 



178 MOUNT AUBURN. 

by the rill, there soothe to peace the ■svearied spirit, dis- 
perse each angry and injurious thought, and melt the 
heart to all the tender offices of humanity. In situations 
such as these, the lover of sequestered nature has de- 
lighted to imagine the pious anchorite had formerly 
dwelt, and cherishing a thought which opens new sources 
of reflection, and throws a more awful tint upon the 
scene, he builds the rude dwelling of his fancied hermit, 
and gives almost the features of reality. Many such 
scenes, the offspring of a romantic imagination improving 
on the wild sketches of nature, are scattered over the 
land, and heightened by inscriptions more or less adapted 
to the occasion. One of these, valuable for its sweet- 
ness of style, but still more for its moral imagery, may 
be adduced here as an example, — 

Inscription for a Hermitage belonging to Sir Robert Burdett. 

O thou, who to this wild retreat 
Shall lead by choice thy pilgrim feet, 
To trace the dark wood waving o'er 
This rocky cell and sainted floor ; 
If here thou bring a gentle mind. 
That shuns by fits, yet loves mankind; 
That leaves the schools and in this wood, 
Learns the best science — to be good ; 
Then soft as on the deeps below 
Yon oaks their silent umbrage throw, 
Peace to thy prayers by virtue brought, 
Pilgrim, shall bless thy hallowed thought. 

Bagshaw Steevens. 

Anxious to preserve the memory of departed friend- 
ships or genius, affection and gratitude have endeavored 



ON INSCRIPTIVE WRITING. 



179 



to effectuate their wishes through the medium of sculp- 
ture, and the bust, the medalHou, or the statue, chiim our 
notice, and give an interesting character to the scenery 
in which they are phaced. Some of the mythological 
figures of Greece and Rome have also been adopted, but 
require much judgment in the choice of scene, and much 
attention to classical details to produce their due effect. 
Beneath sepulture of this kind, inscriptions are common, 
though seldom attaining the end proposed. A curious 
felicity of expression, terse and pointed brevity and 
orignality of conception, should be united, requisites not 
easily obtained, though assiduously sought for. 



FLOWERS POR THE DEAD. 

By Mrs. Stone. 

Sought for in every pageant of life, from the cradle 
to the tomb, flowers seem particularly adapted to, and 
have been almost universally used in the ceremonies of 
the latter. Anion o- the classical nations, the tokens of 
death being in a house were branches of pine and cypress 
suspended near the threshold ; and Lycurgus ordered 
laurel leaves as part of the funeral habit of persons 
of merit, and garlands of flowers were cast on the body 
as it passed to interment. Tombs were strewed with 
flowers, especially roses, which both by Romans and 
Gi'eeks were used in profusion ; roses, lilies, hyacinths, 
parsley, and myrtle, were customary ; and by the Greeks, 
the Amaranth was much esteemed, being considered, as 
its name imports, unfading, immortal — 



180 MOUNT AUBURN. 

" A flower which once 
In Paradise, fast by the tree of life, 
Began to bloom." 

Homer describes the Thessalians as wearing crowns of 
Amaranths at the funeral of Achilles. The asphodel was 
a sacred flower devoted to the deity who presided over 
life, death, and sepulchral rites. INIilton has made beau- 
tiful use of the superstitions attaching to it, in causing 
the nymph Sabrina, when she threw herself into the 
Severn, to be bathed 

" In nectared leaves, strewed with asphodel, 

till she revived. 
And underwent a quick immortal change. " 

It is said that the absolute repudiation of everything 
appertaining to paganism, which marked the first days of 
Christianity, induced the early Christians to discontinue 
the use even of flowers. But this was only for a short 
time. Very soon were they used abundantly, and the 
practice has never since been entirely laid aside in any 
Christian country. It has, indeed, in some country places 
fallen into desuetude ; so much so, that on a marked 
occasion, the use of them was deprecated, because " the 
people about would think it Avas papistical." 

The most superficial reader of Holy Scripture must 
remember how the oft'ering in their Temple, of fruits of 
the earth and flowers, was made incumbent on the Jews 
by the fiat of God. We have the authority of Sacred 
Writ too, for considering the olive the type of abund- 
ance, the lily of purity. Our blessed Saviour gave us 
in the vine a type of his church, in the fig-tree of his 
coming ; and he bade us " mark the flowers of the field, 
how they grow." 



FLOWERS FOR THE DEAD. 181 

Considering this divine sanction, we cannot be sur- 
prised that flowers should have been used as emblems to 
a considerable extent. We do not refer to mere secular 
types, adopted from the imaginative people of the east, 
indicating passion by a tulip, love by a rose, where the 
myrtle, and cypress, and poppy are enwreathed to denote 
despair, the bergamotte and jasmin to betoken the sweets 
of friendship, or the acacia of chaste love. 

But it was no unholy feeling which referred the eternal 
quiver of the aspen leaf, to the then supposed fact of our 
Saviour's cross having been made of that tree, and, 
therefore, that from that moment the leaves have trem- 
bled — can never rest. There is a pretty superstition, 
that the dark spots on the leaf of the arum (dragon- 
flower), were caused by a few drops of the Saviour's 
blood falling on the plant ; there is a prettier, which at- 
taches to the same cause the color of the robin's breast, it 
having chanced to nestle at the foot of the cross. 

The hawthorn, called aubejnne, or morning of the 
year, called also the noble thorn, as supposing it to have 
been the thorny crown of Christ, is traditioned from 
that circumstance, doubtless, to have the power of coun- 
teracting poison, while he who bears a branch shall be 
unscathed in thunder ; as, also, that no malevolent spirit 
can enter the place where it may be. 

That would surely be a right and truthful sentiment 
which would cause the " wise of heart " watching the 
snow-drop — so fragile and so pure — noiselessly, pa- 
tiently, but surely, making its way through a bed of 
snow in the inclemency of winter, to point to it, and to 
use it as an emblem of consolation. It was dedicated 
from its purity to the blessed Virgin. Even that holiest 
of all created women was not dishonored by the ascrip- 
tion. Many a young child has been taught quickly by 
16 



182 MOUNT AUBURN. 

the passion-flower that history of his Saviour, which could 
not otherwise have been impressed without many lessons. 
From the scarlet pimpernel, the " cheerful pimpernel," 
" the poor man's weather-glass," as it is commonly called, 
h@w well was he taught precaution and foresight ; from 
the sunflower and all its numerous class, which 

" Turn to their God, when he sets. 
The same look which they turned when he rose," 

faithful gratitude to the bestower of life and warmth. 
From the day's eye, or common daisy, and myriad other 
flowers which open cheerily in a morning, and in the 
evening fold their leaves and droop " as if in prayer," 
was taught the duty of morning thanksgiving, the neces- 
sity of evening supplication. Nature herself, not the 
church, taught the infant, who, having been accustomed 
to watch an acacia tree, Avould not go to bed. He said 
" it was not bed-time, for the acacia tree had not begun 
its prayers." 

Is it any marvel that the Christian church, the only 
one to recognize fully Him, 

" Whose sunshine and whose showers 
Turn all the patient ground to flowers," 

should have habitually resorted to these mute but elo- 
quent remembrancers at that solemn service when the 
dust returned to earth as it was, and the spirit returned 
to God who gave it ? 

Nor w^as the superstition unpleasing, however ill- 
founded, which taught that the surest way to prevent 
evil spirits from haunting the graves of those we loved, 
was to keep them freshly planted, or strewn with flowers, 



FLOWERS FOK THE DEAJ>. 183 

which by their purity are supposed to prevent the ap- 
proach of any earthly evil. 

As under the Promise the first plat of ground was a 
sepulchre, so under its fulfilment the first sepulchre was 
in a garden ; "in a garden Christ was placed in the 
earth, that the malediction on Adam might be eradi- 
cated." 

The bay has been more especially appropriated to 
funeral solemnities, because it has been said that this 
tree, when apparently dead to the very root, will revive, 
and its withered branches reassume their wonted verdure ; 
and its decay is said to be predicative of some accident. 
The ancients believed it to be a protection from light- 
ning, and it has often been planted in England as a 
security therefrom. It used to be supposed also that 
the aromatic emissions of these trees cleared the air and 
resisted contagion. 

The primitive Christians decorated young women with 
flowers when they were buried ; a custom which always 
obtained in England, where it has also been common 
until lately, and perhaps is still so in places, to hang a 
garland of white roses over the grave of a person dying 
young. These are the " virgin crants," the " maiden 
strewments," alluded to by Shakspeare, as being granted 
to Ophelia instead of the "shards, flints, and pebbles,'' 
which (she having committed suicide) should be thrown 
on her ; and so when Fidele is supposed to be dead, 
Arviragus bursts out thus : — 

" With fairest flowers 
While summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, 
I'll sweeten thy sad grave ; thou shalt not lack 
The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose, nor 
The azured bell, like thy veins ; no, nor 
The leaf of Eglantine." 



184 MOUNT AUBURN. 

Some of Herrick's prettiest lines run thus : — 

" Follow me weeping to my turf, and there 
Let fall a primrose, and with it a tear ; 
Then, lastly, let some weekly stre wings be 
Devoted to the memory of me ; 
Then shall my ghost not walk about, but keep 
Still in the cool and silent shades of sleep." 

Rosemary, so commonly used at weddings, is in great 
request at funerals, in several parts of England, even 
to this day. In former times it was considered indispen- 
sable. Friar Lawrence, when the Capulets are weeping 
over Juliet, dii-ects thus : — 

" Stick your rosemary 
On this fair corse ; and as the custom is, 
In all her best array, bear her to church." 

And Gay writes : — 

" Upon her grave the rosemary they threw. 
The daisy, buttered-flower, and endive blue. " 

Herrick's couplet shows its constant adaptation to 
marriage and death : — 

" Grow for two ends, it matters not at all, 
Be it for my bridal or my burial." 

A French writer describing an English funeral in the 
time of William III., says that every one takes a sprig of 
rosemary to put in the grave ; and an engraving of a 
funeral in Hogarth, represents each mourner as carrying 
a sprig. 



i 



FLOWERS FOR THE DEAD. 185 

Doubtless, from its greenness and fragrance, having 
" seeming and savor all the winter long," it was a token 
of remembrance. So poor Ophelia to her brother — 
" There's rosemary, that's for remembrance ; pray you, 
Love, remember." 

Aubrey, in his Miscellanies, records the custom at 
Oakley, in Surrey, of planting rose-trees on the graves 
of lovers by the survivors ; g,nd in Wales, to this day, 
not only are roses planted round graves, but it is usual to 
keep the gr^ives freshly strewn over for twelve months 
with green herbs and flowers. 



16* 



CHANNING'S MONUMENT. 

The Monument to William Eliery Cliannino; is situated in Yarrow 
Path. It is wrought in fine Italian marble, from a design by Washing- 
ton Allston. 

On one side of the sarcophagus is this inscription : — ^ 

Here rest the remains of 

William E l l e r y C ii a n n i n g , 

Born 7th April, 1780, 

At Newport, R. I. 

Ordained June 1st, 1803, 

As A Minister of Jesus Christ, to the Society worshipping God 

In Federal street, Boston : 

Died 2d October, 1812, 

While on a journey at Bennington, Vermont. 

On the other side are these words — 

In Memory of 

William Ellery Channing, 

Honored throughout Christendom 

For his eloquence and courage in maintaining and advocating 

The great cause of 

Truth, Religion, and Human Freedom, 

This Monument 
Is gratefully and reverently erected 
Br THE Christian Society of which, during nearly forty years, 
He was Pastor. 



FUNEREAL EMBLEAIS AND DEVICES. 18 ( 



FUNEREAL EMBLEMS AND DEVICES. 

There are many truths not explained by philosophy, 
nor demonstrable by reason, which may be illustrated 
in a pleasing manner by emblems. Science does not 
teach us all we wish to know, and imagination often 
suggests a truth which is too deeply involved in mystery, 
to be clearly comprehended or fully believed. Religion 
is half buried in obscurity, and reveals doctrines which 
are inexplicable, as heaven itself is invisible and the spir- 
itual world incapable of being located. Many ideas, 
connected with the state of our existence hereafter, belong 
to the same mysterious circle of truths. These ideas are 
pleasingly illustrated by emblems, which contain intima- 
tions, not demonstrations of truth, and afford glimpses of 
light which has never yet fully irradiated the human 
mind. It is for these reasons that emblems are so gener- 
ally employed to convey to the mind an image of the 
soul's condition in the future world, and to impress it 
with a belief of things which are only dimly seen by the 
eye of faith. 

An emblem may be defined a visible image, or a picture 
that suffo-ests to the mind the idea of some abstract truth. 
It is indeed a pictured allegory or parable. In the East, 
emblems are still freely used in profane as well as in sacred 
thinss. Among the Persians fire is the emblem of their 
Deity, expressing by the same image his power and his 
beneficence — heat being the source of all life, and having 
power to destroy all created forms of matter. The ser- 
pent with its tail in its mouth is an Egyptian emblem of 
eternity ; but modern taste revolts at its puerihty, and it 
really affords no idea of infinity, such as might be repre- 



188 MOUNT AUBURN. 

sented by a light whose- rays extend illimitahly in all 
directions from the centre. There is a savor of the 
burlesque in this emblem of the serpent ; and it is sur- 
prising that any person will admit it among the devices 
of monumental sculpture. 

In India there are still in existence statues of immense 
size which are emblematical of virtue. They are furnish- 
ed with several arms, to indicate the necessity of so many 
forces to enable one to contend successfully against vice. 
Xenophanes, an ancient poet, remarks in certain verses, 
that every animal suo-gests images that assist the human 
mind in forming conceptions of the Deity. The wings of 
birds are associated with the idea of progress upward and 
through space, without contact with the earth. Hence 
they are found in all mythological pictures of supernatural 
beings, and are not confined to the Jewish and Chris- 
tian theology. Many of the Pagan Deities are furnished 
with wings which, in the sacred books, are confined to 
angels. The image of the true God needs no such aid, 
as he is everywhere present at the same moment. By 
the Hebrew Prophets he is represented as seated on the 
clouds, from which he issues his commands to the inhabi- 
tants of the earth. There is no material image that 
affords so exalted an idea of the power of the Deity as 
this. Plato, and after him Pascal, in his " Pensees," 
adopted the beautiful emblem of Timseus of Locris, who 
describes the Deity by the image of "a circle whose 
centre is everywhere, and whose circumference no- 
where." 

One of the most delightful of our sacred emblems is 
that which represents Hope as the image of a female 
leaning upon an anchor, the symbolical representation of 
steadfastness and confidence, without which hope cannot 
exist. This is a very appropriate emblem for a cemetery, 



FUNEREAL EMBLEMS AND DEVICES. 189 

where our only consolations are derived from our confi- 
dence in a future life, and our faith in the assurances of 
religious hope. The emblem of the Dove has been em- 
ployed by poets and artists of all ages and nations. The 
chariot of Venus is drawn by turtle doves ; and the 
dove and the lamb, so remarkable for their gentleness and 
innocence, have always been used as symbols of Christian 
A'irtues, and engraved on funereal monuments, the one as 
the emblem of innocence, and the other of constant af- 
fection on the part of the mourner. The dove bearing 
an olive-branch, has been regarded as an emblem of 
peace, because it bore the olive-branch to the ark, as 
proof that the deluge had ceased, and that the Deity was 
reconciled to man. 

The study of emblems is closely connected with that 
of monumental sculpture, inasmuch as they are the foun- 
dation of all those devices which are used to decorate a 
tombstone. A pleasing device is to the artist what a 
pleasing metaphor is to a poet. Indeed, a sculptor has 
no other way of expressing his ideas upon marble, than 
by means of emblems, unless he gives the real image of a 
thing. The head with wings, that appears so often on the 
upper part of the head stones, in our old graveyards, is 
an interesting device which was probably derived from 
that of the winged globe. The head is intended to rep- 
resent the soul, and the Avino-s the image of its flio;ht. 
These and other devices, Avhich were so generally em- 
ployed by the Puritans, are vastly more poetical than 
those which are seen on the monuments of noble and 
royal families in Great Britain. On the latter are repre- 
sented the armorial bearings of the family and various 
symbols of heraldry. The effigy of the Earl of Pem- 
broke, who died in 1324, reposes in Westminster Abbey, 
on the summit of the tomb, with the feet and hands 



190 MOUNT AUBURN. 

bare, and the latter elevated and joined as in prayer. 
The rest of the figure is clad in the prevailing armor of 
that period, and equipped as the Earl was when he was 
living. At the head, which rests on a double cushion, are 
two small figures in flowing drapery, kneeling on one 
knee and supporting a third, intended to represent angels 
supporting the soul in its ascent to heaven. At the feet 
of the Earl is a lion couchant. The only religious em- 
blem on this monument consists of the angels which are 
really made secondary in importance to the lion. In 
almost all the monuments of that day, a lion is introduced 
crouching at the feet of the effigy ; and among these an- 
cient sculptured figures we find but few religious emblems, 
though the effigies, for the most part, are clasping their 
hands as in prayer. 

The emblem of the cross is historical, referring to the 
manner of the death of Jesus Christ, and is intended to 
signify the Christian faith of the dead, and the dedication 
of his remains to the founder of that faith. In our ceme- 
teries it is usually confined to the graves of members ot 
the Catholic Church, though it should be strictly em- 
blematical of the Christian religion. The drooping figure 
of sorrow, in the attitude of weeping, is interesting and 
appropriate, and is rendered still more picturesque by the 
bending branches of the willow that extend over it. A 
figure of a rose and a rose-bud signifies the repose of the 
mother and child in the same grave, and the image of a 
lamb alone is emblematical of an infant. A butterfly 
just emerged from a chrysalis is intended to represent the 
mortal putting on immortality. 

Nearly all the monuments in our cemeteries are, them- 
selves, emblems, no less than tlie devices upon them. 
Such are the altar, the cross, the broken column, signify- 
ing life cut short in its prime, and the funereal urn which 



FUNEREAL EMBLEMS AND DEVICES. 191 

refers to the custom of urn-burial. The burning taper 
upon the ahar is a pleasing device connected with a 
Catholic ceremony. A Phoenix rising out of its ashes is 
a very happy emblem of resurrection. A sleeping child 
is rather a picture than an emblem, because it presents 
to the mind a literal fact rather than a fanciful image. 
Many interesting emblems are derived from plants. The 
white star of Bethlehem is an emblem of purity, and 
would be an appropriate device on the tomb of a virtuous 
young girl, and a wreath of amaranth suspended over it 
would symbolize the immortality upon which she has en- 
tered. The snow drop is a beautiful symbol of hope, be- 
cause it blooms before the snows of winter are gone, and 
brings to us the promise of spring. The passion flower 
would be an appropriate device on the tomb-stone of a 
Christian, as it represents the crown of thorns, the cross, 
the nails of the cross, and the five wounds of Christ. 
The asphodel might be used as a device to signify grief 
or regret, as it was planted near tombs among the an- 
cients, with the same signification. Many other pleasing 
devices might be derived from the vegetable world, but 
they must be apparent ; if far-fetched and difficult of in- 
terpretation they lose their effect. 

On the portal of Mount Auburn is a winged globe, 
which is intended to signify or emblemize the care of Di- 
vine Providence, the earth being sustained on wings, as 
the children of the earth are sustained by the invisible arm 
of the Deity. This is an Egyptian device, and was taken 
from the facades of the Egyptian temples. The figure 
of a mountain which was employed by the Egyptians as 
a symbol of death, was probably connected with the pyra- 
mids ; though it is not unlikely that the idea of the pyra- 
mids might have been derived from the mountain, which 
was excavated by that people for the construction of 
tombs. 



192 MOUNT AUBURN. 

THE FUNERAL. — An Eclogue. 
By Robert Sodthet. 

stranger. 

Whom are they ushering from the world, with all 
This pageantry, and long parade of death ? 

TOWNSMAN. 

A long parade, indeed, sir ; and yet here 

You see but half; round yonder bend it reaches 

A furlong farther, carriage behind carriage. 

STRANGER. 

'Tis but a mournful sight, and yet the pomp 
Tempts me to stand a gazer. 

TOWNSMAN. 

Yonder school-boy, 
Who plays the truant, says the proclamation 
Of peace was nothing to the show, and even 
The chairing of the members at election 
Would not have been a finer sight than this. 
Only that red and green are prettier colors 
Than all this mourning. There, sir, you behold 
One of the red-gowned worthies of the city, 
The envy and the boast of our exchange, 
Ay, what was worth, last week, a good half million, 
Screwed down in yonder hearse. 

STRANGER. 

Then he was born 
Under a lucky planet, who to-day 
Puts mourning on for his inheritance. 



THE FUNERAL. AN ECEOGUE. 1^3 

TOWNSMAN. 

When first I heard his deatli, that very wish 
Leaped to my hps ; but now the closing scene 
Of the comedy hath wakened wiser thoughts ; 
And I bless God, that when I go to the grave, 
There will not be the weight of wealth, like his, 
To sink me down. 

STRANGEB. 

The camel and the needle, — 
Is that then in your mind ? 

TOWNSMAN. 

Even so. The text 
Is gospel wisdom. I would ride the camel, — 
Yea, leap him flying through the needle's eye, 
As easily as such a pampered soul 
Could pass the narrow gate. 

STRANGER. 

Your pardon, sir ; 
But sure, this lack of Christian charity 
Looks not like Christian truth. 

TOWNSMAN. 

Your pardon, too, sir ; 
If, with this text before me, I should feel 
In preaching mood ! But for these barren fig-trees, 
With all their flourish and their leafiness. 
We have been told their destiny and use, 
When the axe is laid unto the root, and they 
Cumber the earth no longer. 
17 



194 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



STKAKGER. 

Was his wealth 
Stored fraudfully, the spoil of orphans wronged, 
And widows who had none to plead their right ? 

TOWNSMAN. 

All honest, open, honorable gains ; 
Fair legal interest, bonds and mortgages, 
Ships to the east and west. 

STRANGER. 



Why judge you then 



So hardly of the dead ? 



TOWNSMAN. 

For what he left 
Undone : — for sins, not one of which is mentioned 
In the Ten Commandments. He, I warrant him, 
Believed no other gods than those of the creed : 
Bowed to no idols, — but his money bags ; 
Swore no false oatlis, save at a custom-house ; 
Kept the Sabbath idle ; built a monument 
To honor his dead father ; did no murder ; 
And prudently observed the seventh command, 
Never picked pockets ; never bore false witness ; 
And never with that all commanding wealth, 
Coveted his neighbor's house, nor ox, nor ass. 

STRANGER. 

You knew him then, it seems ? 

TOWNSMAN. 

As all men know 
The virtues of your hundred thousanders : 
Thev never hide their lights beneath a bushel. 



THE FUNERAL. AN ECLOGUE. 

STRANGER. 

Nay, nay, uncharitable, sir ! for often 
Doth bounty, Hke a streamlet, flow unseen 
Freshening and giving life along its course. 

TOWNSJUAjST. 

We track the streamlet by the brighter green 
And livelier growth it gives : — but as for this — 
This was a pool that stagnated and stunk : 
The rains of heaven engendered nothing in it, 
But slime and foul corruption. 

STRAXGER. 

Yet even these 
Are reservoirs, whence public charity 
Still keeps her channels full. 

TOWNSMAN. 

Now, sir, you touch 
Upon the point. This man of half a million 
Had all these public virtues which you praise : — 
But the poor man rung never at his door ; 
And the old beggar at the public gate. 
Who, all the summer long, stands hat in hand, 
He knew how vain it was to lift an eye 
To that hard face. Yet he was always found 
Among your ten and twenty pound subscribers, 
Your benefactors in the newspapers. 
His alms were money put to interest 
In the other world, — donations to keep open 
A running charity account with heaven : 
Retaining fees aoainst the last assizes. 
When for the trusted talents, strict account 



196 



196 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



Shall be required from all, and the old arch lawyer 
Plead his own cause as plaintiff. 



STRANGER. 



I must needs 
Believe you, sir : — these are your witnesses, 
These mourners here, who from their carriages 
Gape at the gaping crowd. A good March wind 
Were to be prayed for now, to lend their eyes 
Some decent rheum. The very hireling mute 
Bears not a face blanker of all emotion, 
Than the old servant of the family ! 
How can this man have lived, that thus his death 
Costs not the soiling one white handkerchief? 

TOAVNSMAN". 

Who should lament for him, sir, in whose heart 

Love had no place, no natural charity ? 

The parlor spaniel, when she heard his step, 

Rose slowly from the hearth, and stole aside 

With creeping pace ; she never raised her eyes 

To woo kind words from him, nor laid her head 

Upraised upon his knee, with fondling whine. 

How could it be but thus ! Arithmetic 

Was the sole science he w^as ever taught. 

The multiplication table was his creed, 

His pater-noster and his decalogue. 

When yet he was a boy, and should have breathed 

The open air and sunshine of the fields. 

To give his blood its natural spring and play, 

He, in a close and dusky counting-house, 

Smoke-dried, and seared, and shrivelled up his heart. 

So from the way in which he was trained up, 



THE FUNERAL. AN ECLOGUE, 197 

His feet departed not ; he toiled and moiled, 

Poor muck-worm ! through his threescore years and 

ten, 
And when the earth shall now be shovelled on him, 
If that which served him for a soul were still 
Within its husk, 't would still be dirt to dirt. 

STKANGEK. 

Yet your next newspapers will blazon him, 
For industry and honorable wealth, 
A bright example. 

TOWNSMAir. 

Even half a million 
Gets him no other praise. But come this way, 
Some twelve months hence, and you will find his 

virtues 
Trimly set forth in lapidary lines, 
Faith, with her torch beside, and little cupids 
Dropping upon his urn their marble tears. 



17* 






THE BOWDITCH STATUE- 

The Bronze Statue of Dr. Bowditch stands upon a granite foundation, 
facing the main entrance to Mount Auburn , and is the work of Ball 
Hughes, an English artist, formerly a resident in the United States. It 
is said to be a \ery correct likeness of the great Mathematician. 



MOURNING CUSTOMS. 199 



MOURNING CUSTOMS. 

By Mrs. Stone. 



Hardly more diversified are the nations who people 
the earth, than are the customs and observances used by 
them to signalize the arrival of the commonest of all 
visitors, though most awful of all guests, the " black 
veiled king of the dead." The Jews of old rent their 
garments and sprinkled dust on their heads, a practice 
followed to this day in Abyssinia. The practice of 
teai'ing the garments is, we are told, commuted by the 
Jews of these economical days into carefully cutting 
away a small, and probably a perfectly insignificant por- 
tion thereof. They bottled their tears also, a custom 
referred to in the 56th Psalm ; and that this practice was 
customary with the Greeks and Romans, the number of 
lachrymatories, or tear bottles, found among their sepul- 
chral remains, sufficiently testifies. 

A late writer has pointed out the analogy between a 
mourning custom of the Australian savages of to-day, 
and of the ancient Hebrews, viz., the cutting or scratch- 
ing the face with the nails, tearing the flesh between the 
eyes, and otherwise maiming the person, as is the custom 
of the female aborigines of Australia on the death of a 
relative. Hence the warning in Holy Writ — " Ye 
shall not make any cuttings in your flesh for the dead, 
nor print any marks upon you." Lev. xix. 28. 

The " cup of consolation " referred to in Scripture, 
and the " bread of mourning," sometimes called also the 
"bread of bitterness," were the refreshments always 
among the Jews, supplied by friends to the bereaved 
person on his return from the funeral — in its origin a 
most kind and hospitable relief to the bereaved family. 



200 MOUNT AUBURN. 

The Jews cherished their grief in every way ; they in- 
vited it ; they pampered it ; they took all pains to recall 
the poignancy of their affliction. They ate their food 
seated on the ground and without shoes. For three days 
they strove not to repress their tears. For seven days 
people came morning and evening to weep with them. 
At the end of seven days the mourner might attend the 
synagogue ; but thirty days must elapse ere he was al- 
lowed to bathe, or to dress his beard. 

In many countries the term of mourning was fixed by 
law. The Jews, as we have seen, mourned thirty days ; 
the Lacedaemonians but eleven ; the Egyptians from forty 
to seventy days. Romulus fixed a widow's mourning at 
ten months, the length of his year. The Imperial Code not 
only ordained a year's mourning, but declared the widow 
infamous if she married within that period. The time of 
mourning is fixed by law in China, three years being the 
period required for a parent. 

The Jewish fashion of throwing ashes on the head, 
beating the breast and tearing the flesh with the nails, 
was, on occasions of peculiar concernment, adopted by the 
Greeks. But in addition to the funeral feasts, which 
among Greeks and Romans soon ceased to wear an entirely 
lugubrious aspect, they enlivened their melancholy with 
games and funeral processions. These entertainments 
among the Greeks consisted chiefly of horse-races, where 
garlands of parsley were awarded to the victors. The 
Roman games were processions, and the very character- 
istic entertainment of the mortal strife of gladiators and 
the funeral pile. These funeral games were abolished by 
the Emperor Claudius. 

A custom prevailed among some of the ancient nations 
of cutting off the hair and casting it on the body or into 
the tomb. So did the Roman women on Virginia ; so 



MOURNING CUSTOMS. 201 

did the Ephesian matron on her husband — all unluckily 
for her second nuptials ; so did Orestes on his father's 
tomb ; Hecuba on her sons ; and so did the pure, and 
gentle, and pious Antigone on her brother's. The shav- 
ing of the head, or at least the cutting off the hair, seems 
in all ages to have been considered an emblem of mourn- 
ing, and a token of violent affliction. The Jews made 
their heads bald, and clipped their beards. 

The classical nations also cut off their hair ; indeed, it 
seems it Avas their opinion that a lock of hair from the 
head of the dying person must be offered to Proserpine, 
before the soul of the sufferer could be released. Hence, 
perhaps, the custom of mourners to shave their hair as in 
Alcestes : — 

" Nor vase of fountain water do I see 
Before the doors, as custom claims, to bathe 
The corse ; and none hath on the portal placed 
His locks, in solemn mourning for the dead. 
Usually shorn." 

They were afterwards cast on the funeral pile. 

The Persian soldiers cut off their hair on the death of 
Alexander. This custom continued to be the expression 
of general mourning. The Empress Irene cut off her 
hair when the Emperor Alexius died ; and we are told 
that the modern Greek women retain the usage. Even 
so late as the middle of the sixteenth century, a writer, 
describing the cemetery of a Servian town, says — " Large 
bunches of hair also hung from many of the tombs, 
which had been deposited there by the women as a sign 
of mourning." 

It seems to have been ever usual to utter noisy demon- 
strations of sorrow for deceased friends, and also to hire 



202 MOUNT AUBURN. 

assistance that the noise might be great enough. Such 
assistants were the Praefica, the old women hired by the 
Romans to shed tears and sing the praises of deceased 
persons, and who usually followed after the trumpeter or 
other musician in the funeral procession. The Jews used 
to hire minstrels and others to mourn and lament for the 
dead. 

" And when Jesus came into the ruler's house, and 
saw the mhutrels and the people making a great noise, 

" He said unto them, Give place : for the maid is not 
dead, but sleepeth." Matt. ix. 23, 24. 

The poorest man in Israel, when his wife died, never 
had less than two pipes, and one mourning woman. 
Thns mourning became an art, which devolved on women 
of shrill voices, copious of tears, and skilful in lamenting 
and praising the dead in mournful songs and eulogies. 
On a signal from the chief mourner, these mourning wo- 
men took the chief part, and the real mou.rners remained 
comparatively silent. So in ancient times. 

In modern days the most sedate of all people, the 
Chinese, on the occasion of a funeral, burst out into loud 
shrieks and lamentations. All along the Levant also the 
practice of keening is in full vogue. Buckhardt, in his 
travels, tells us that a particular class of women is called 
in on the occasion of a death, whose sole profession is 
that of howling, in the most heart-rending accents, for a 
small sum paid to them by the house, Medina being the 
only town where this custom did not prevail. At Yembo, 
where the plague was raging, he heard when he retired 
to rest, innumerable voices breaking out on all sides into 
heart-breaking and dreadful cries, which kept him awake 
the whole night. 

This practice seems, indeed, universal in the East. 
The funerals of most people in decent circumstances are 



MOURNING CUSTOMS. 



203 



attended by singers and howlers. The Roman Muheres 
Praeficse correspond precisely, it is said, with the women 
who lead the keen in Ireland, where the outcry is too 
outrageous to be taken as an effusion of real sorrow. 
The custom is said to be of ancient, even of supernatural 
origin, having been first sung by invisible spirits in the 
air, over the grave of one of the early kings of Ireland. 
So we are told in Mrs Hall's Ireland, from which the 
following description of the Irish Keen is taken : — 

" The keen commences. The women: of the house- 
hold range themselves on either side of the bed,.rise with 
one accord, and moving their bodies with a slow motion 
to and fro, their arms apart, they continue to keep vip a 
heart-rending cry. This cry is interrupted for awhile, 
to give the leading keener an opportunity of commenc- 
ing. 

" The rapidity and ease with which both the blessings 
and curses of the keen are uttered, and the epigramma- 
tic force of each concluding stanza, generally bring tears 
into the eyes of the most indiiferent spectator, or produce 
a state of terrible excitement. The drainatic effect of 
the scene is very powerful : the darkness of the death 
chamber, illumined only by candles that glare upon the 
corpse — the manner of repetition, or acknowledgment 
that runs round when the keener gives a sentence — the 
deep, yet suppressed sobs of the nearer relatives, and the 
stormy, uncontrollable cry of the widow or bereaved hus- 
band, w^hen allusion is made to the domestic virtues of the 
deceased, all heighten the effect of the keen. 

" The keener having finished a stanza of the keen, 
sets up the wail (indicated in the music, by the semibreve 
at the conclusion), in which all the mourners join. Then 
a momentary silence ensues, when the keener commences 
again, and so on, each stanza ending in the wail. 



204 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



" The lamentation is not always confined to the keener. 
Any one present who has the gift of poetry may put in 
his or her verse, and this sometimes occurs. Thus the 
night Avears away in alternations of lamentation and 
silence ; the arrival of each new friend or relative being, 
as already observed, the signal for renewing the keen." 

From the old classical epithet of " black veiled king of 
the dead," one would suppose that black had been uni- 
versally, as with ourselves, the mourning color. Not 
so, however. Plutarch writes that in their mourning, 
women laid aside their purple, gold and jewelry, and 
clothed themselves in white, " like as then the dead body 
was wrapped in white clothes. This color was thought 
the fittest, because it is clear, pure, and sincere, and least 
defiled." 

So in our own country (England) some white, an em- 
blem of purity, is always displayed on the hearse and 
pall of a child or uimiarried person. In the northern 
parts of England, indeed, a white linen scarf or hat-band 
is an indispensable part of mourning for the dead at any 
age. 

Coarse red hempen cloth is the only dress allowed in 
China for the first and deepest mourning. In time this 
is changed to white ; and silk may be Avorn in half- 
mourning, but blue or white sleeves are indispensable. 
White being chosen as expressive of the belief that the 
dead are in heaven, the place of purity. So more prac- 
tically in Egypt yellow is chosen, because it represents 
natural decay as exhibited in fruits and flowers ; whilst 
in Turkey blue is often adopted to denote the sky as the 
place of departed spirits. All this, however, whether in 
good or bad taste, is moveable mourning ; but we are 
told that the first duty of the women of Medina, on as- 
suming mourning, is to dye the hands with indigo. 



MOURNING CUSTOMS. 205 

In France and England, however, black is the univer- 
sal mourning color, and in the former country, at any 
rate, the formalities of grief were of a very peculiar na- 
ture ; for any royal mourner was compelled to lie in or 
on bed. • The higher the rank of the person, the longer 
was this prostration of grief expected to continue. 

On the death of any royal or noble person, or indeed 
of one of gentle blood, the nearest of kin always went 
to bed, and there remained, or was supposed to remain, a 
certain number of weeks or days. And if the mourner 
were of the blood-royal, the degree of affliction to be ex- 
hibited was prescribed by authority. In the fifteenth 
century a Queen of France was required to confine her- 
self in bed, or appear to do so, for one year, from the time 
of her royal husband's death. 

Affliction being proportionately softened as lofty rank 
graduated to a lower level. Peeresses were required to lie 
in bed only nine days ; but for the remainder of the six 
■weeks, so passed by royalty, these mitigated mourners 
were to sit in front of their beds " upon a piece of black 
cloth." 

That there is to the most earnest mourner a feeling 
somewhat consolatory, or at least soothing in a mourning 
robe, there is no question ; but it is the black, the mourn- 
ing, the change from gay attire and jewelry, to something 
completely opposite — something whose dim hue assimi- 
lates with the shadow on the heart, that is sought. One 
truly sorrowing cares little about tucks " graduated " to 
a shade in crape, or silk, just as much (/lace as modern 
fashion allows to mingle w^ith that lugubrious ornament. 

It is right that those who can afford the pomp and cir- 
cumstance of woe, and who are comforted thereby, should 
have that solace to its utmost extent ; whether the pomp 
be displayed in Chinese red cotton, or in English crape- 
18 



206 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



robed mutes and wee])ers. It Is wrong that this pomj) 
and circumstance shoukl be so engrafted on our national 
habits, that the desolate widow, the penniless orphan, or 
tniportioned sister, mu^t cruelly embarrass themselves to 
obtain the precious vestments which custom dictates, or 
be supposed to fail in respect to the husband, the father, 
the brother, whom they loved in their heart of hearts, and 
to a re-union with whom they look as their chiefest hope 
and comfort. 

The mourning which Christ hath hallowed — for he 
iveptfor Lazarus — has no communion with crape bands 
and weepers. There is no teacher like Death. In his 
dread presence the great mystery of life opens on the 
sorrowing heart, the awakened mind. He teaches that 
faith and hope by which the bruised seed is bound, the 
broken heart healed ; and as fragrance, which in its per- 
fectness was unknown, emanates from an herb when it is 
crushed, so does sorrow develope virtues and consolations 
undreamt of in gay and happy hours. 

Thus does the faithful mourner learn that sorrow and 
pain and suffering — those " many waters," which threat- 
ened but did not overwhelm — passed, the purified and 
renewed spirit will emerge on that happier shore, where 
sin and sorrow are unknown, where tears are wiped from 
every eye, and where the toil-worn, grief-worn, stricken, 
but contrite denizen of the earth, shall stand blessed, pure 
and happy as a little child, in the presence of his Creator. 

And so chastened and subdued, and passing " cheerly 
on through prayer unto the tomb," the true mourner 
looks beyond that solemn vestibule, to re-union with those 
deeply and enduringly loved on earth, who are — not 
lost — but cone before. 



ANCIENT GREEK EPITAPHS. 



207 



ANCIENT GREEK EPITAPHS. 

A PECULIAR pathos characterizes the Greek Epitaphs, 
and though they are generally wanting in those expres- 
sions of hope in an existence after death that distinguish 
the epitaphs of Christian nations, they are still read with 
interest by all persons of cultivated mind. The Romans 
were more accustomed to weaving a moral lesson in their 
epitaphs, but those of the Greeks surpass them in tender- 
ness of sentiment and felicity of expression. The fol- 
lowing examples are selected from Pettigrew's collection. 

Of general application, and in relation to the univer- 
sality of death, and the moral lesson to be derived from 
it, we have, — 

By Archilochus : — 

Jove sits in highest Heaven, and opes the springs, 
To man, of awful and forbidden things. 
Death seals the fountains of reward and fame : 
Man dies, and leaves no guardian of his name. 
Applause awaits us only while we live, 
While we can honor take and honor give : 
Yet were it base for man, of woman born. 
To mock the naked ghost with jests or scorn. 



By Simonides : 



Human strength is unavailing ; 
Boastful tyranny unfailing ; 
All in life is care and labor ; 
And our unrelenting neighbor, 



208 MOUNT AUBURN. 

Death, for ever hovering round ; 
Whose inevitable wound, 
When he comes prepared to strike, 
Good and bad will feel alike. 

The Greeks do not appear to have considered the in- 
troduction of the name as essential to an inscription ; 
thus on some who were shipwrecked, — 

By Archilochus : — 

Loud are our griefs, my friend, and vain is he 

Would steep the sense in mirth and revelry 

O'er those we mourn ; the hoarse resounding wave 

Hath closed and Avhelmed tliem in their ocean grave. 

Deep sorrow swells each breast. But Heaven bestows 

One healing med'cine for severest woes — 

Resolved endurance — for affliction pours 

To all by turns, — to-day the cup is ours. 

Bear bravely, then, the common trial sent, 

And cast aside effeminate lament. 

There is much feeling in the following, — 

By Amyte : — 

Drop o'er Antibia's grave a pious tear ; 
For virtue, beauty, wit, lie buried here. 
Full many a suitor sought her father's hall, 
To gain the maiden's love ; but Death o'er all 
Claimed due precedence : Who shall death withstand ? 
Their hopes were blasted by his ruthless hand. 



ANCIENT GREEK EPITAPHS. 209 

The followino; contains some hint of future existence, — 
By Leonidas of Tarentum : — 

BY A MOTHER ON HER SON. 

Unhappy child ! Unhappy I, who slied, 
A mother's sorrows o'er thy funeral bed ! 
Thou'rt gone in youth, Amyntas : I in age, 
Must wander through a lonely pilgrimage, 
And sigh for regions of unchanging night, 
And sicken at the day's repeated light. 
O guide me hence, sweet Spirit, to the bourn 
Where, in thy presence, I shall cease to mourn. 

By Simmias of Thebes : — 

ON SOPHOCLES. 

Wind, gentle evergreen, to form a shade 
Around the tomb where Sophocles is laid. 
Sweet ivy, wind thy boughs, and intertwine 
With blushino; roses and the clustering vine. 
Thus shall thy lasting leaves, with beauties hung, 
Prove grateful emblems of the lays he sung. 

By Speusippus : — 



ON PLATO. 

Plato's dead form this earthly shroud invests ; 
His soul amono; the godlilie heroes rests. 

By Callimachus : — 

Beside the tomb where Bathus' son is laid. 
Thy heedless feet, O passenger ! have strayed. 
■ 18* 



210 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



Well skilled in all the minstrel's lore was he ; 
Yet had his hour for sport and jollity. 



By the same 



EPITAPH ON HIS FATHER. 



Know thou, this tomb who passest bj, 

At once both sire and son am I, 

To a name most dear to us, 

Cyrenean Callimachus. 

One of his country was the shield, 

In many a glorious battle-field : 

The other sang so sweet a strain, 

That Envy listened with disdain, 

And strove to vanquish him in vain. 

For him on whom the Muses smiled, 

Even at his birth — their favorite child — 

In age they never will forsake, 

But his gray hairs their temple make. 

By Meleager : — 

ON HELIODORA. 

Tears o'er my Heliodora's grave I shed, 
Affection's fondest tribute to the dead. 
O flow, my bitter sorrows, o'er her shrine. 
Pledge of the love that bound her soul to mine ! 
Break, break, my heart, o'er-charged with bursting 

woe, 
An empty offering to the shades below ! 
Ah ! plant regretted ! Death's remorseless power 
With dust unfruitful choked thy full blown flower. 
Take, Earth, the gentle inmate to thy breast, 
And soft entombed, bid Heliodora rest ! 



ANCIENT GREEK EPITAPHS. 



211 



The next, by an anonymous author, places some hopes 
upon another and better land ; 

ON PROTE. 

Thou art not dead, my Prote ! though no more 
A sojourner on earth's tempestuous shore ; 
Fled to the peaceful islands of the blest. 
Where youth and love, forever beaming rest ; 
Or joyful wandering on Elysian ground, 
Among sweet flowers where not a thorn is found. 
No winter freezes there, no summer fires, 
No sickness weakens and no labor tires ; 
No longer poverty, nor thirst oppress, 
Nor envy of man's boasted happiness ; 
But spring forever glows serenely bright, 
And bliss immortal hails the heavenly light ! 

The Epigrammatic style of many of the Greek epi- 
taphs is well illustrated in that ascribed to Anacreon, on 
the tomb of Timocritus : — 

Timocritus adorns this humble grave ; 

Man spares the coward, and destroys the brave. 

It was common among the Greeks to inscribe epitaphs 
to those who had distinguished themselves in war, and 
had fallen in battle. The commemoration of those wdio 
Avere distinguished for their wealth alone, was not so 
common as with us. 

By Simonides : — 

ON THOSE WHO FELL AT THERMOPYL^. 

In dark Thermopylae they lie ; 
O death of glory, there to die ! 



212 MOUNT AUHURX. 

Their tomb an altar is, their name 
A mighty heritage of fame : 
Their dirge is triumph — cumbering rust, 
And Time that turneth all to dust — 
That tomb shall never waste nor hide, — 
The tomb of warriors true and tried. 
The full voiced praise of Greece around 
Lies buried in that sacred mound ; 
Where Sparta's King Leonidas, 
In death eternal glory has. 

By the same : — 

ON THE SAME. 

These for their native land, through death's dark shade, 
Who freely passed, now deathless glory wear. 

They die not ; but by Virtue's sovereign aid. 
Are borne from Hades to the upper air. 

By the same : — 

ON THOSE WHO FELL, AT THE EURYMEDON. 

These by the streams of famed Eurymedon 
Their envied youth's short-brilliant race have run : 
In swift-winged ships, and on th' embattled field. 
Alike they forced the Median bows to yield, 
Breaking their foremost ranks. Now here they lie, 
Their names inscribed on rolls of victory. 



CONSECRATION DELL, 

This is the name given to the valley -which was the spot chosen for 
the service of conseci-ation. The engraving represents the appearance 
of the dell on one side, the monument in the foreground being placed 
near the point where the orator stood, and the opposite slope being occu- 
pied by the crowd of persons who assembled to hear the address. At 
present this is a very imposing hollow, containing Forest Pond in the 
centre, and surrounded by paths and grounds laid out in the most pleas- 
ing and appropriate style of art. The monuments erected in the sur- 
rounding lots are seen to better advantage than any others perhaps in 
the Cemetery. There are many noble trees of the primitive grounds in 
this basin, among which are some tall beech trees, a species which is 
not very common in the vicinity. 



214: MOUNT AUBURN. 



GRAVES WITHOUT A STONE. 

Not every good, nor every great man, has had a monu- 
ment erected over his grave. Manj a hero and many 
a phihxnthropist Hes in a grave that is immarked by a 
stone, while the craven and the unworthy, who have oc- 
cupied places of honor during life, have been glorified by 
a monument to conceal their infamy after death, as the 
glitter of state concealed it while living. There would 
be some wisdom in endeavoring to win a monument, if it 
were always the reward only of real merit and of virtu- 
ous actions. So pleasing is the idea of being honored by 
succeedino; generations, that one who is striving thronoh 
persecution, neglect, poverty, and disgrace, to accomplish 
some great good for his fellow men, might feel compensa- 
ted by the reflection that after death his actions would be 
recorded with praise upon a conspicuous marble edifice. 
But those who lie under sumptuous monuments after 
their death, are the same that dwelt in mansions and pal- 
aces while they were living. These marble piles have 
too often been erected from the same motives that prom})t 
the courtier to flatter those who are exalted by their po- 
sition ; and society has learned that the inscriptions upon 
them, like the flattery of the living, are often without 
truth. 

The simple headstone is seldom intended for anything 
more than an object by which the friends might identify 
the spot where the remains of the dead repose. It is 
commonly a mere tribute of friendship, designed not to 
exaggerate the worth of the dead, but to pay a tender re- 
spect to his memory. It tells that the buried one had 
friends who wished to keep him in remembrance, and to 



GRAVES WITHOUT A STONE. 



21.3 



bear an aifectionate testimony to his vn-tiies. When, there- 
fore, we look upon a simple headstone, we feel sensible 
of no attem])t to exalt the dead by factitious honors : we 
feel that every good citizen is worthy of this humble 
tribute ; and the record of his name and age, of the time 
of his death, and some few important circumstances of 
his histor}^ may interest not only the living friends, but 
likewise the posterity of the departed, when the present 
generation has passed away. 

But when we see a grave without a stone, we know 
that the person buried there was either friendless, or 
that his friends were too indigent to pay this last respect 
to his obsequies. To a person of susceptible feelings and 
lively imagination, a mere suggestion is often better than 
a full account of the circumstances of an event. When 
we examine a grave that is marked by a stone, the in- 
scription commonly satisfies our curiosity in relation to 
the dead. The name, the age, the birth-])lace, and per- 
haps the character of the occupant are there recorded. 
We turn away satisfied, and read the next epitaph. As 
we proceed we arrive at a green hillock that stands alone 
and is unmarked by a stone. The rising of the ground 
denotes the character of the spot. It makes known that 
the remains of a human being are there deposited, and 
the imagination, is left to conjecture the cavise of the 
neglect that has attended him in his sepulture. 

It may be the tomb of a stranger ; of one who was 
lost from his family and friends, who have never heard of 
his death, who are still seeking for him, and waiting his 
return. He may have been the only son of a widowed 
mother, who lives in a foreign land, and who still daily 
offers prayers to heaven for his safety and his restoration. 
She wonders at his long absence, and dreams not that he _ 
lies here in a stranger's grave, which can never be known 



216 MOUNT AUBURN. 

as his resting place, and where no human being can 
identify his remains. How many tears have been wasted 
that should have been poured as a sacred offering upon 
this green turf! How many conjectures have alternately 
raised the hopes and depressed the spirits of this bereaved 
mother, which might have been tranquillized, had she but 
followed the remains of this unknown slumberer to his 
final rest ! 

Many are the dead who lie in these nameless graves, 
and many who died with a pang of deep sorrow in their 
hearts, when they thought that they were far from those 
who knew them, and that their place of burial could 
never be recognized. Some perhaps would be dishonored 
by their own history : but how many are they whose 
lives would awaken in our hearts the most tender emo- 
tions, the liveliest interest in their affecting adventures, 
and the deepest sympathy in their misfortunes. The ob- 
sciu'ity in which these unknown tenants of the grave is in- 
volved, affixes a romantic interest to their biography. No 
envy is excited by a view of their lonely resting place, as 
when a sumptuous marble crowns the sepulchre of one 
whom we knew and who was undeserving of honor. It 
was with a view to this escape fi-om the envy of the 
world, that the youthful poet wrote these lines : — 

" Thus unlamented, let me die, 
Steal from the world, and not a stone, 
Tell where I lie." 

Even those who during their life-time are desirous of 
fame and position, feel that a monumental pile, be it ever 
so unpretending, is calculated to excite the envy of the 
world, and that after all their struggles for distinction, a 
humble life, and an unambitious grave, are perhaps the 
most sincerely honored. 



GRAVES WITHOUT A STONE. 



217 



There is a moral in these facts which is worthy of deep 
study and reflection ; that teaches a lesson of humility to 
the ambitious, and accords with the saying of Jesus, that 
" he that humbleth himself shall be exalted." It proves 
that we do not elevate the dead by piling up costly hon- 
ors on their graves, and that we mav indeed exalt the 
truly great by the simplicity with which we mark the 
place of their sepulture. When one is laid in the ground, 
an unpretending stone with simply his name and age re- 
corded upon it, and a few lines refei'ring modestly to his 
character and his virtues, without any ostentatious brevity, 
and without direct or implied eulogy, attracts the atten- 
tion and wins the approbation of all. If he attained 
great distinction in life, some may think that he deserved 
more honor after his death ; but if he were truly great 
and worthy, his reputation is safer in the memory and 
affections of his countrymen, than upon the glittering 
marble that towers above his grave. 

The most interesting graves, indeed, are those which 
are without a stone. What is more picturesque than a 
little hillock rising up among the herbage, that marks 
the grave of a,n infant ! And how easily might this 
charm be destroyed by a few of those accompaniments 
which vanity or bad taste might have caused the surviv- 
ing friends to heap up around it ! At the sight of this 
diminutive grave we say, how often has this green turf 
been sprinkled by the tears of some indigent mother, 
who wept the more because her tears were all the gift 
she had to bestow upon the grave of her beloved and 
lost. A monument may be the cold offering of duty, 
when there were no affection and no sorrow ; but the tear- 
drops of a sincere mourner sanctify the spot, and make it 
blessed forever ! 



19 



218 MOUNT AUBURN. 

To be interesting in the highest degree, a grave shovild 
be alone, or where but few others rest. Our sympathies 
are lost in a crowd, and a single object that is calculated 
to touch the heart, ahvays most powerfully excites the 
imagination. Sometimes by the way-side, or on the edge 
of a solitary pasture, have we encountered one of these 
neglected graves. The poor mortal whose remains lie 
there, must have been friendless, or he died, perhaps, of 
some disease that caused him in his last moments to be 
forsaken. How many sad tales of atfliction might be 
related by the spirits of those who are thus at their death 
set apart from the rest of the dead ! What a bitter satire 
on tlie inhumanity of man might be drawn from their 
history : of their virtues unnoticed and unrewarded in 
their humble poverty ; of their offences unjustly revenged ; 
their humble wants unsiipplied ; their modest ambition 
treated with scorn ; their last sickness unvisited by 
friends, and their death followed by an obscure and 
solitary burial ! 

But the faith of the Christian informs him that the 
dead will not be judged by the honors which a mistaken 
world may have heaped upon them, or by the neglect to 
which it may have left them. The crown of righteous- 
ness may glow with heavenly lustre from the brows of 
many whose mortal remains lie obscure, degraded and 
forgotten, in these nameless graves. 



THE UNKNOWN GRAVE. 



THE UNKNOWN GRAVE. 

By Adelaide Anne Proctor. 

No name to bid us know 

Who rests below, 
No word of death or birth ; 

Only the grasses wave 
Over a mound of earth, 

Over a nameless grave. 

Did this poor wandering heart 

In pain depart ? — 
Longing, but all too late, 

For the calm home again, 
Where patient watchers wait 

And still will wait in vain ? 

Did mourners come in scorn, 

And thus forlorn, 
Leave him with grief and shame 

To silence and decay. 
And hide the tarnished name 

Of the unconscious clay ? 

It may be from his side 

His loved ones died, 
And last of some bright band, 

(Together now once more,) 
He souscht his home, the land 

Where they were gone before. 



219 



2-0 MOUNT AUBURN. 

No matter — limes have made 

As cool a shade, 
And lingering breezes pass 

As tenderly and slow, 
As if beneath the grass, 

A monarch slept below. 

No grief, though loud and deep 
Could stir that sleep ; 

And earth and heaven tell 
Of rest that shall not cease. 

When the cold world's farewell 
Fades into endless peace. 



^^^'\/'^'>\ 




BOstoTl, 



J. FOS S 



THE FOSS MONUMENT. 

This monument is situated on Snowdrop Path. It is a noble granite 
block, and tastefully enclosed. Various emblematic designs of the Ma- 
sonic order are cut upon it. In front of the monument is a marble 
table. Upon it rests the figure of a lamb, cut on- a marble blocli. 
Beneath the table, on a slab, is an encased boquet of flowers. The 
following are the inscriptions upon the front of the monument : — 

Make us eternal truths receive, 
And practice all that we believe. 

J. FOSS. 

For modes of faith let graceless zealots fight; 
llis can't be wrong, whosa life is in the rigiit. 



On the right hand side is also placed the following : — 
"God is Luve." 

SACRED 

to the memory of 

Mehitable H., 

Wife of Jacob Foss, 

who departed this 

LIFE, April 10, 1846; 

AGED 54 TEARS. 



Go, live! for the heaven's eternal year is thine. 
Go, and exalt thy mortalto divine 



19' 



222 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



THE CATACOMBS OF ROME: 

Epitomized fkom the Atlantic Monthly. 

The Roman Catacombs consist, for tlie most part, of a 
subterranean labyrinth of passages, cut through the soft 
volcanic rock of the Campagna, so narrow as rarely to 
admit of two persons walking abreast easily, but here 
and there, on either side, opening into chambers of vary- 
ing size and form. The walls of the passages, through 
their whole extent, are lined with narrow excavations, 
one above another, large enough to admit of a body 
being placed in each ; and when they remain in their 
original condition, these excavations are closed in front 
by tiles, or by a slab of marble cemented to the rock, 
and in most cases bearing an inscription. Frequently 
there are several stories connected with each other by 
sloping wayg. 

There is no single circumstance, in relation to the cat- 
acombs, of more striking character than then* vast extent. 
About twenty different catacombs are now known, and 
are more or less open, — and a year is now hardly likely 
to pass without the discovery of a new one ; for the 
orioinal number of undero-round cemeteries, as ascer- 
tained from the early authorities, was nearly, if not 
quite, three times this number. It is but a very few 
years since the entrance to the famous catacomb of St. 
Callixtus, one of the most interesting of all, was found 
by the Cavaliere de Rossi ; and it was only in the Spring 
of 1855, that the buried church and catacomb of St. 
Alexander, on the Nomentan Way, were brought to light. 
Earthquakes, floods, and neglect, have obliterated the 
openings of many of their ancient cemeteries — and the 



CATACOMBS. 



223 



hollow soil of the Campagna is full " of hidden graves, 
which men walk over without knowing where they are." 

Each of the twelve great highways which ran from 
the gates of Rome was bordered on either side, at a short 
distance from the city wall, by the hidden Christian ceme- 
teries. The only one of the catacombs, of which even 
a partial survey has been made, is that of St. Agnes, of 
a portion of which the Padre Marchi published a map in 
1845. " It is calculated to contain about an eighth part 
of that cemetery. The greatest length of the portion 
thus measured is not more than seven hundred feet, and 
its greatest width about five hundred and fifty ; never- 
theless, if we measure all the streets that it contains, 
their united length scarcely falls short of two English 
miles. This would give fifteen or sixteen miles for all 
the streets in the cemetery of St. Agnes." Mr. North- 
cote, from whose work' the preceding paragraph is taken, 
estimates the total leno-th of the catacombs at nine hun- 
dred miles. 

Taking the above account as a fair average of the size 
of the catacombs, for some are larger and some smaller, 
we must assign to the streets of graves already known a 
total length of about three hundred miles, with a proba- 
bility that the unknown ones are at least of equal length. 
This conclusion appears startling whcTi one thinks of 
the close arrangement of the lines of graves along the 
walls of these passages. The height of the passages 
varies greatly, and with it the number of graves one 
above another ; but the Padre Marchi, who is competent 
authority, estimate^ the average number at ten ; that is, 
five on each side, for every seven feet, — which would 
give a population of the dead, for the three hundred miles, 
of not less than two millions and a quarter. No one who 
has visited the catacombs can believe, surprising as this 



224 MOUNT AUBUR> 

number- may se^m, that the Padre Marchi's calculation 
is an extravagant one as to the number of graves in a 
given space. The writer of this has counted eleven 
graves, one over another, on each side of the passage, 
and there is no space lost between the head of one grave 
and the foot of another. Everywhere there is economy 
of space, — the economy of men working on a hard ma- 
terial, difficult to be removed, and laboring in a confined 
space, with the need of haste. 

The question of the number of the dead in the cata- 
combs opens the way to many other curious questions. 
The length of time that the catacombs were used as 
burial places ; the probability of others, l)eside Christians 
being burled in them ; the number of Christians at Rome 
during the first two centuries, in comparison with the 
total number of the inhabitants of the city ; and how far 
the public profession of Christianity Avas attended with 
peril in ordinary times at Rome, previously to the con- 
version of Constantine, so as to require secret and hasty 
burial of the dead ; — these are points demanding solution ; 
but at present those only will be taken up that relate im- 
mediately to the catacombs. 

There can be no certainty with regard to the period 
when the first Christian catacomb was begun at Rome, 
l)ut it was probably within a few years after the first 
i^reaching of the Gospel there. The Christians would 
naturally desire to separate themselves in burial from the 
heathen, and to avoid everything having the semblance 
of Pagan rites. And what mode of sepulture so natural 
for them to adopt in the new and affecting circumstances 
of their lives, as that which was already familiar to them, 
in the account of the burial of their Lord ? They knew 
that he had been " wrap])cd in linen, and laid in a sepvil- 
chre which was hewn out of a rock, and a stone had 



CATACOMBS. 



225 



been rolled unto the door of the sepulchre." They 
would be buried as he was. Moreover, there was a gen- 
eral and ardent expectation among them of the second 
coming of the Saviour ; they believed it to be near at 
hand ; and they believed also that then the dead would 
be called from their graves, clothed once more in their 
bodies, and that as Lazarus rose from the tomb, at the 
voice of his Master, so in that awful day when judg- 
ment should be passed upon the earth, their dead Avould 
rise at the call of the same beloved voice. 

But there were, in all probability, other more direct, 
though not more powerfu^'reasons, which led them to the 
choice of this mode of burial. We read that the Saviour 
was buried, " as the manner of the Jews is to bury." The 
first converts in Rome, as St. Paul's Epistle shows, were 
in great part among the Jews. The Gentile and Jewish 
Christians made one community, and the Gentiles adopted 
tlie manners of the Jews in placing their dead, " wrap- 
ped in linen cloth, in new tombs hewn out of the rock." 

Believing, then, the catacombs to have been begun 
withm a few years after the first preaching of Christian- 
ity in Rome, there is abundant evidence to prove that 
their construction was continued during the time when 
the Church was persecuted, or simply tolerated, and that' 
they were extended during a considerable time after 
Christianity became the established creed of the Empire. 
Indeed several catacombs, now known, were not begun 
until some time after Constantine's conversion. They 
continued to be used as burial places certainly as late as 
the sixth century. This use seems to have been given 
up at the time of the frequent desolation of the land 
around the walls of Rome by the incursions of barbarians, 
and the custom, gradually discontinued, was never re- 
sumed. The catacombs then fell into neglect, were lost 



226 MOUNT AUBURN. 

sight of, and their very existence was ahnost forgotten. 
But during the first five hunch-ed years of our era, they 
were the burial places of a smaller or greater portion of 
the citizens of Rome, — and as not a single church of 
that time remains, they are, and contain in themselves, 
the most important monuments that exist of the Christian 
history of Rome for all that long period. — Atlantic 
MontUij, Vol. I. p. 513. 



HEART BURIAL. 

From "Chronicles of the Tombs." 

The custom of burying the heart separately from the 
rest of the body prevailed in the sixteenth century, in 
the case of death at a distance from home. The body 
was deposited in a grave in the place where the person 
died, and the heart was sent home to the friends of 
the deceased. Thus, in 1569, Sir Robert Peckham, 
dying at Rome, his body was buried at St. Gregory in 
that city, and his heart at Durham Church in England. 

Mr. Steele, an early writer, relates the following inci- 
dent in connection with the burial. " As I came accident- 
ally into the church, Sept. 25, 1711, a vault at the east 
end of the north isle being opened, into which I went, 
and found a small box of lead fashioned like a heart, but 
flat, being scarce two inches in thickness, with the lead 
sawdered, but the under part corroded ; the heai't of Sir 
Robert Peckham discovered itself, wrapped within several 
cloths, and still smelling strong of the embalmment." On 
the lid was his inscription. 

At Wedmore is a monument " Sacred to the memory 
of Captain Thomas Hodges, of the County of Somerset, 



HKART BURIAL, 



227 



Esq., wlio, at the siege of Antwerp, about 1583, with un- 
conquered courage, won two ensigns from the enemy, 
where receiving liis last w^ound, he gave three legacies ; 
his soul to his Lord Jesus, his body to be lodged in Flem- 
ish earth, his heart to be sent to liis dear w^ife in England. 

Here lies his wounded heart, for whom 

One kingdom was too small a room. 

Two kingdoms, therefore, have thouglit good to part 

So stout a body and so brave a heart." 

In 1859, Henry III. of France, was slain by a Jacobin 
Friar. Camden says his heart w^as enclosed in a small 
tomb, with an inscription in Latin, of whicli the follow- 
ing is a translation : — 

" Whether thy choice or chance thee thither brings. 
Stay, passenger, and wail the hap of kings. 
This little stone a great King's heart doth hold. 
That ruled the fickle French and Polacks bold, 
Whom, with a mighty w^arlike host attended, 
With traitorous knife, a cowled monster ended. 
So frail are even the highest earthly things. 
Go, passenger, and wail the fate of kings." 

Lord Edward Bruce fell in a duel in Holland, with 
Sir Edward Sackville, in 1G13. His body Avas buried in 
the great Church of Ber-gen op-Zoom, the place w^here 
the duel was fought, and where a monument was erected 
to his memory. His heart was found in 1808, in the old 
Abbey Church of Culcross, in Perthshire, in a silver box 
shaped like a heart, with name and arms inscribed and 
delineated on it. 

Mr. Faulkner states in his History and Antiquities of 
Hammersmith Church, that it was the custom to take 



228 MOUNT AUBURN. 

out tlie lieart from the urn in whicli it was deposited, and 
on the aniversary of its entombment, to refresh it tvith a 
glass of wine. This practice was continued for upAvards 
of a century and a half, with the heart of Sir Nichohis 
Crispe. 

Tiie heart of Sir WilHam Temple was, in 1G99, buried 
in a silver box, at Moore Park, under the Sundial in the 
garden. His body w^as placed in Westminster Abbey. 

The heart of James II., in 1701, was buried at St. 
Mary of Chaillot, near Paris : his brain in the Scotch 
college, and here also the heart of his Queen. The dis- 
posal of the body and its members of this monarch is 
very singidar. Rev. Longueville Jones states, that the 
kincr left his brains to the Scotch Colleo-e at Paris, and 
some other parts to the Irish and English Colleges in the 
same city. His heart was bequeathed to the Dames de 
St. Marie, at Chaillot ; but the body was interred in the 
Monastery of English Benedictine Monks, in the Rue 
du Faubourg St. Jacques, close to the Val de Grace. 

The distribution of the several parts of the body did 
not, in the earlier instances, take place without opposition. 
The practice was even forbidden by Pope Boniface VIII. , 
and disobedience to his order on the subject was threat- 
ened with t?xcommunication. His successor, however, 
Pope Benedict, permitted Philip de Bel to employ it in 
relation to the Princes and Princesses of his royal house, 
in cases where it might be difficult to transport the entire 
body to the place of their sepulchre. The authorities of 
St. Denis also protested strongly against the practice, and 
claimed a right to the bodies entire ; but the Freres Pre- 
chems and Condelier prevailed over the Benedictines, 
and obtained for their churches portions of the bodies. — 
Cojnjnled. 



WHERE DWELL THE DEAD ? 229 

WHERE DWELL THE DEAD. 

Selected. 

Where do they dwell ? 'Neath grassy mounds, by 

daisies, 
Lilies, and yellow-cups of fairest gold : 
Near grey-grown w^alls, where in wild, tortuous mazes, 
Old clustering ivy wreathes in many a fold : 

Where in red summer noons 

Fresh leaves are rustling, 

Where 'neath full autumn moons 

Young birds are nestlino; — 
Do they dwell there ? 

Where do they dwell ? In sullen waters, lying 
On beds of purple sea-flowers newly sprung ; 
Where the mad whirlpool's wild and ceaseless sighing, 
Frets sloping banks by dark green reeds o'erhung ; 

Where by the torrent's swell, 

Crystal stones glitter, 

While sounds the heavy bell 

Over the river — 

Do they dwell there ? 

No : for in these they slumber to decay. 
And their remembrance with their life departs ; 
They have a home, — nor dark, nor far away — 
Tlicir j)r()])er home, — within our faithful hearts. 

^riiere happy spirits wed, 

Loving forever ; 

There dwell with us the dead. 

Parting — ah, never — 
There do they dwell I 
20 



230 



MOUKT AUBUKN. 



REPUBLICAN BURIAL. 



It is not every American who reflects, Avlien lie is de- 
signing a monument, for his own use, or for a friend's 
memorial, that we are members of a republic, and that 
the costly and highly decorated monuments and sculpture, 
which may be seen in some of the cemeteries of the Old 
World, are not fit subjects for our imitation. However 
capable we may be of equalling, or even excelling the 
models produced by foreign artists, and however abun- 
dant our wealth — a simple stone, to stand as the memo- 
rial of our life, and the index of our place of repose, 
with a few obituary lines, and some pleasing devices iipon 
the stone, is the most befitting a citizen of a country 
wdiere all are politically equal. An honest private citizen 
of a republic is as worthy as a monarch or a nobleman, 
who is possessed of the same virtues, of a monument to 
hand down his name and his deeds to posterity. But 
kings and noblemen are few, and private citizens are 
many. The former might for centuries indulge their 
taste in monumental sculpture, and when they died, be 
represented in marble effigy ; and ages might elapse be- 
fore their monuments would become inconveniently nu- 
merous. But were all the wealthy citizens of a republic 
to indulge themselves in the same luxury, it would 
require but a few years to cover all our land with monu- 
ments, until those objects, which are intended to awaken 
a reverence for the dead, w^ould become a mere inane 
aiid ludicrous exhibition of pride. 

The names of our ancestors are perpetuated on their 
humble headstones ; and it is delightful to w\ander in old 
o-ravevards and read the brief history of these members 



REPUBLICAN BURIAL. 231 

of a past generation, among whom many of us recognize 
the names of our own ancestors. We are disappointed 
when we cannot find the stone that shouki mark the 
grave of some person who is well remembered in history. 
If our ancestors had made it a general practice to erect 
a monument to the head of every family, no great evil 
would have attended their multiplication, because the 
people of that early period, in our own nation, were few. 
Let the same be done by every family at the present day, 
and not a half a century would be required to whiten all 
the land with monumental marble, and to deaden all its 
pleasing effect by its increase. Expediency, therefore, 
requires us to be modest in indulging ourselves in this 
kind of luxury, or in fostering this kind of pride. Fifty 
years hence, our people will feel more interest in our 
revolutionary history, than in the history of the present 
period, and the ordinary men of our revolution will stand 
out in greater prominence than the greatest among our 
contemporaries. Posterity will search among the tombs 
forjthe original monuments over the graves of men who 
were famous in our revolutionary era. They would look 
for them in vain : but in the place of them they would 
find sumptuous marbles piled on the graves of men wdiose 
names are entirely unknown to them, and which are 
buried in utter oblivion. Would it be unnatural, if, in 
consequence of this disappointment, they should feel con- 
tempt for an art that was used to commemorate those 
who must necessarily be forgotten, and which had ne- 
glected to commemorate those who were conspicuous in 
their country's annals ? 

It is the part of wisdom to see that w^e do not deviate 
from a rigid rule of simplicity, either in the number or 
the extravagance of our monuments. A simple obelisk 
or monumental pillar, is very properly used in frequent 



232 MOUNT AUBURN. 

instances, to memorialize the different individuals of the 
same family, the name of each member after his death 
being inscribed successively upon it. In some cases 
there is an ambition manifested to assign a separate 
monument to every individual who is paramount in the 
affections of one who is able to command the pecuniary 
means of building it. People do not always consider that 
they cannot force immortality upon one who lived a private 
life, or who was conspicuous only in a circle of fashion, 
who remembers her votaries only wdiile they shine, and 
forgets them if they become old or indigent before their 
death. To aim at immortalizing oneself or a friend, with- 
out any claims, by a pile of imperishable stone, though it 
surpass all that was ever built, is like endeavoring to ac- 
quire literary immortality by publishing one's name in 
the title page of a splendid gilded quarto, containing 
only blank pages. The monument may immortalize the 
sculptor, and publish the obscurity of him who lies under 
it. 

In the history and pedigree of the heads of noble 
families, however unworthy they may have been of the 
honor their position commanded, a large part of the 
nation feels an interest, because it is connected with the 
history of their country. If marble is used to perpetuate 
the memory of such men, we do not consider it an offer- 
ing to virtue, but to history. In erecting a sumptuous 
monument to a private citizen of exhalted merit, we 
make an offerino; to virtue. If he were not remarkable 
for his virtues, the marble is simply an offering of affec- 
tion. Were every person who leaves a friend to mourn 
for him, to be glorified with one of these sumptuous 
tributes, their frequency must at last render them entirely 
vin and insignificant. The public sight would be Avea- 
ried with their universal glitter and their unavailing 
pretensions. 



REPUBLICAN BURIAL. 



233 



The true principle of republican burial is to be con- 
tent that all the dead should remain as obscure as they 
were in their lifetime. It is absurd to endeavor to exalt 
a person, who has lived all his life in obscurity, whose 
very name was only known to his neighbors and to those 
with whom he had commercial dealings, by the art of the 
sculptor. It is nothing to the purpose that he was in 
truth a greater and more virtuous man than the occupant 
of the next grave, who is honored by a tower of granite 
or a marble effigy, on account of his distinguished position 
as a hero or a statesman. The last belongs to history, 
and however mean his virtues or his talents, the nation 
will always be interested in his biography. It is no anti- 
republican principle, therefore, which admits the propriety 
of erecting a costly monument to a man of ordinary worth 
and talents, who has been a President of the United 
States, and which does not admit the expediency of build- 
ing such a tribute to an obscure citizen of the highest 
virtue, who performed no public acts. Let the stone that 
marks his grave give humble testimony of his virtues, 
and in proportion to its humility will the reader who 
stoops to read his epitaph, believe it to be true. 

To posterity a monument containing the name of one 
whose name or deeds cannot be traced in the literary, 
civil, or ecclesiastical history of his time, must be regard- 
ed in the same lio;ht as one containing a fictitious 
name. There could exist no motive to preserve such a 
monument, unless on account of the extreme scarcity of 
such works, it might be valued as a curiosity and a relic 
of antiquity. In the eighteenth century, in this country, 
almost every private name was connected with the public 
events of the time. We have, therefore, a strong motive 
to preserve every monument of their dead, both on ac- 
count of their historical importance, and their value as 
20 * 



2f34 MOUNT AUBURN. 

antiquities. Such circumstances no longer exist in tliis 
country, and can never exist hereafter. Hencefoi'th, 
those few only, who are the most distinguished among 
the prominent men of the age, can afford any interest to 
posterity. The discoverer of a new world, or of a new 
science, the leader of some great moral or political revo- 
lution, — the Father Mathew, or the Wilberforce of his 
own time, — such names alone amidst the tens of thou- 
sands of men who are great by position, who are great in 
an ordinary way, will be noticed or even remembered by 
a succeedino- generation. Tbe remainder will be like so 
many names upon a vast and interminable catalogue. 

Who is this man, posterity will inquire, with a tower 
of stone erected over his remains, whose works and deeds 
are not recorded even in the local history of his own 
neiixhborhood ? Whosoever he might be, his monument 
does "but record and publish his obscurity and inferiority 
to a succeeding generation. The philosophy of that sort 
of reputation which is gained after one's death by marhle 
tower or effigy, if properly studied, would demonstrate 
that one might as well attempt to scale the heavens by 
another tower of Babel, as to purchase it of the sculptor. 

A wealthy citizen in the town of , had lately 

buried his father, who was a man of rare excellence of 
character. He erected a plain headstone over his grave, 
and recorded in a few touching lines a testimony of his 
Avorth and of his own veneration for his memory. His 
neighbors inquired why he had paid so little respect to 
the memory of his father, whom all the citizens of the 
place would delight to lienor, by the proudest work of 
sculpture. " My father,'' replied the^son, " lived all his 
days in obscurity, doing good without ostentation, seeking 
no honors, but satisfied with the approbation of his own 
conscience, and with the pleasure it afforded him to think 



THE pauper's death-bed. 235 

of the happiness he liacl conferred upon others. Were I to 
erect a costly monument over his remains, I should per- 
form an act which would be inconsistent with the tenor 
of his life, and the principles of his conduct. He lived 
a humble life, and he is honored by this humble grave, 
and by the filial testimony which is recorded of his virtues. 
His deeds are embalmed in the memory of hundreds 
whom he has reformed, blessed, and alleviated ; and this 
plain headstone honors his memory more than the proud- 
est column of marble." 



THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED, 

By Collins. 

TiiEAD softly — bow the head — 
In reverent silence bow — 
No passing bell doth toll — 
Yet an immortal soul 
Is passing now. 

Stranger ! however great. 
Though laurels deck thy brow, 
There 's one in that poor shed — 
One by that paltry bed — 
Greater than thou. 

Beneath that beggars roof, 
Lo ! death doth keep his state : 
Enter — no crowds attend — 
Enter — no guards defend 
This palace gate. 



MOUNT AUBURN. 

That pavement damp and cold 
No smiling courtiers tread ; 
One silent woman stands 
Lifting with meagre hands 
A dying head. 

No minixlincr voices sound — 
An infant wail alone ; 
A sob suppressed — again 
That short, deep gasp, and then 
The parting groan. 

Oh ! change — Oh ! wondrous change ! 
Burst are the prison bars — 
This moment there, so low, 
So agonized, and now 
Beyond the stars ! 

Oh ! change — stupendous change ! 
There lies the soulless clod. 
The sun eternal breaks — 
The new immortal wakes — 
Wakes with his God. 




N.H. EARLE. 



THE EARLE MONUMENT. 

This is a beautiful slender raai>ljle column, situated on Mistletoe Patli. 
On the top of the monument is a devotional figure of an angel child. 
The front is tastefully decorated with wreaths of flowers.' The following 
are the inscriptions upon it : — 

My Wife and Child. 



Oh lovely pair so soft and mild, 
In equal beauty dust; 
Our Saviour blest the little child, 
And such as they are blest. 

N. H. EARLE. 



238 



MOUNT AUBUEN. 



TREES IN MOUNT AUBURN. 

It is not generally understood that there may be too 
many trees, as well as too many flowers, in a rural ceme- 
tery, too many for the beauty as well as for the conveni- 
ence of the place. When trees are crowded closely 
together, they lose their lateral branches and all their 
characteristic beauty. One broad-spreading ti'ee that 
covers a large space of ground is more serviceable for 
shade, and more beautiful and attractive in its appearance, 
than ten or twelve tall, slendel' trees occupying the same 
space. This remark is particularly applicable to trees in 
cemeteries, in which it is desirable to obtain as great a 
canopy of shade and foliage, with as little encumbrance 
from the roots and stems of trees, as can be made to 
subsist together. The trunk of one broad-headed tree 
occupying the space of one or two feet in diameter, 
leaves the remainder of the ground that is shaded by it 
free to be used for a burial spot. A number of smaller 
trees occupying the same space nil it up so closely with 
their roots and stems, as to render it useless for the burial 
of the dead ; and though it will not be denied that there 
is grandeur in a dense forest of such trees, there is vastly 
more of this quality in a grove of trees which are broad 
and perfect in their shape. The first may be com})ared 
to a hall with a flat roof sustained by a large number of 
small pillars ; the last to a roof consisting of a few noble 
arches resting on massive columns, leaving unoccupied a 
wide intermediate space. 

Mount Auburn would be at present a more beautiful 
place, and more convenient for the purposes to which it 
is dedicated, if, at the time of its consecration as a ceme- 



TREES IN MOUNT AUBURN. 289 

teiy, it had been entirely free from wood, and afterwards 
had been judiciously planted with young trees of tlie 
prevailing species. Very few well formed trees are to be 
seen in these grounds, because they are mostly the elon- 
gated trees of the forest, which occupy a great deal of 
space in proportion to the amount of shade afforded by 
them, and greatly encumber the burial lots. 

It may be further remarked, that it is injurious to the 
monuments to stand under the drip of trees, which ought 
not, therefore, to grow inside of the burial lots ; the only 
trees that ought to be planted near the lots are such as do 
not widely extend either their roots or their branches. 
Such are the different species of the arhor vitcd, and other 
coniferous trees that acquire a slender pyramidal shape. 
The advantages of trees in a cemetery cannot be enjoyed 
without a few attendant evils ; but the latter might in some 
measure be avoided, if the larger kinds of trees were con- 
fined to the avenues and to certain tracts which are not 
to be -used for the burial of the dead. 

The avenues, to answer this end, should be made of 
sufficient width to permit a row of large trees to stand 
and spread their branches freely on each side. The foot- 
paths, on account of their narrow width, should be 
bordered only with shrubbery and trees of a slender, 
spiry growth. The elm and the oak, which require great 
amplitude of space, ought to be extirpated from all nar- 
row and confined situations. 

The idea of attaining picturesque effects in a rural 
cemetery, by the grouping of trees, cannot be carried 
into practice. The necessary formality that must pre- 
vail in the construction of the paths and avenues, and 
in the geometrical forms of the burial lots, especially 
when they are enclosed by a fence, prevents any such 
groupings and combinations. A formal irregulai'ity is 



240 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



no more picturesque than any other kind of formality. 
The wild and rather pleasing disorder apparent in the 
natural arrangement of the trees in Mount Auburn, is 
every year becoming obliterated, as the proprietors cut 
down the trees in the lots and leave those only in the 
paths and avenues. As often as a new proj)rietor lays 
out a burial lot, he is obliged to destroy all or nearly all 
the trees within its bounds. They must at last, therefore, 
be confined almost entirely to the avenues, forming rows 
that correspond to their directions, and exhibiting in 
their disposition the same irregular foi'mality. But as 
the remaining trees will increase in breadth, in propor- 
tion as their number is lessened, the grounds will con- 
tinue to be as well shaded as they are at the present 
time, and will be improved in grandeur and beauty. 

It is apparent that in many cases, either some fine 
trees must be sacrificed, or the burial lot must be devoted 
to the trees instead of the graves. A great deal of judg- 
ment must be required to determine when it would be 
expedient to reserve the lot in order to save a tree. If 
the latter be young, vigorous, and of good proportions, it 
ought to be transplanted into a convenient and appro- 
priate location; if it be too. large to be removed, the 
value of the tree should decide its fate. The fate which 
must, at some not very distant period, come upon the 
trees now within the lots, might suggest the expediency 
of planting trees near them in the avenues, in anticipa- 
tion of it. The young trees thus planted would supply 
the places of the old growth as it is removed ; and ex- 
hibit superior size and beauty. Twenty years hence, the 
aspect of Mount Auburn will be less wild ; it will have 
less of the peculiar attractions of a forest ; but if nothing 
be neglected that ought to be done, it will be a more 
beautiful place, independently of its monuments, than it 
is at the present time. 



TREES IN MOUNT AUBURN. 



211 



If we were preparing a rural cemetery for the use only 
of tliose wlio may be on the stage, after the present 
generation has passed away, our wisest course would be 
to select a spot that is entirely destitute of trees, and 
plant them, after laying out the grounds, in those places 
only in which they might always conveniently remain. 
But our predecessors could not have acted more wisely 
than they did when they selected a wooded tract of land. 
The present must not be wholly sacrificed to the future ; 
and Mount Auburn, which was perhaps the most beauti- 
ful tract of forest in the country, became, immediately 
after its establishment, admired as a garden of nature, no 
less than as a place consecrated to the burial of the dead. 
Since that time, while to a certain extent it has been 
suflPering the loss of its original attractions, of its primi- 
tive and characteristic beauty, trees of a nobler growth 
have been advancing to supply the places of the less 
beautiful denizens of the forest, and under their shade a 
highly dressed sui-face is taking the place of the moss- 
grown turf of the pasture. 

When selecting trees for planting in a cemetery, we 
should reject all those species which are inclined to throw 
up suckers from their roots, as this habit is the source of 
a great deal of trouble to the keeper of the grounds, and 
the cause of considerable mischief to the burial lots. Of 
the kinds which are the most addicted to this habit may be 
mentioned the beech, the locust, the wild cherry, the abcle, 
and all the species of poplar. In the vicinity of any of 
these trees the grounds will generally be covered with 
suckers, often overrunning the graves, and choking the 
turfs and the flower-beds with their intrusive growth. 
Among exotic shrubs, the common white spiraea of the 
gardens and the lilac, are of this description. Of the 
wild shrubs, the barberry and the elder have the same 
21 



liabit, tliovigh the viburnums, yliose flowers resemble 
those of the elder, are free from it. 

The preceding remarks are intended as mere sugges- 
tions of some of the obvious means of improving the 
arboreous features of INIount Auburn. The beauty and 
grandeur of fully developed and wide-spreading trees 
have not been sufficiently appreciated, and the value of a 
mere forest growth has been comparatively overrated. 
How would the majestic appearance of the trees on Bos- 
ton Common be diminished, if the space now shaded by 
them were occupied by ten times the present number, 
with only the same amount of branches and foliage ? 
The forest has certain charms which cannot be trans- 
ferred to a grove of perfect trees ; but the decorations of 
art and the eleo^ance of dressed grounds cannot be made 
to harmonize with the former, and in proportion as the 
works of the sculptor and the operations of the gardener 
are made manifest, must the park-tree be allowed to take 
the place of the forest tree. It is important that the 
proprietors of lots should consider these points, that all 
their operations may be consistent, and may serve to 
bring about one grand and uniform result. 



FUNEREAL CHARACTERS OF TREES. 243 



FUNEREAL CHARACTERS . OF TREES. 

Mount Auburn was originally selected for a ceme- 
tery, on account of the beauty and variety of its primitive 
forest growth, no less than for its pleasing diversity of 
surface. The greater part of the indigenous species of 
Massachusetts may be found here. The native shrubs 
were also numerous in the original grounds ; but these 
liave been nearly extirpated, to make room for foreign 
shrubs. The proprietors of lots have generally preferred 
the latter ; according to the principle that governs them 
in trade, — namely, that the most valuable article is the 
one that bears the highest price in the market. Hence 
the dwarf kalmia, one of the most beautiful of nature's 
productions, and the different cornels and viburnums, 
must resign their places to altheas, smoke plants, and 
Judas trees. 

In selecting locations for other rural cemeteries, a 
similar regard has been paid to trees, which are con- 
sidered indispensable at the outset ; but how well soever 
the place may be diversified with trees, many will neces- 
sarily be removed for convenience, and others will need 
to be planted to fill vacancies, and to supply the want 
of certain valuable species. A cemetery without trees 
would be very blank and unattractive, however well 
supplied with flowers. But all kinds are not equally 
well adapted to this situation ; some being remarkable 
for certain funereal characters and associations, while 
others are fitted for a cemetery from their advantageous 
manner of growth. Deciduous trees are to be preferred 
for the greater part of the grounds ; but an occasional 
admixture of evergreens adds to their impressiveness, as 



244 MOUNT AUBURN. 

well as to their variety. On account of the sombre 
appearance of this class of trees, a grove made up 
entirely of them would be very gloomy in the interior ; 
but a good proportion of evergreens is promotive of that 
seclusion which the deciduous kinds could not afford in 
the winter, or after the fall of the leaf. 

There is no object more solemn and impressive than 
a venerable wood, full of majestic trees. Poets have 
always delighted to celebrate their stillness, their seclu- 
sion, their grandeur, and their deep and benevolent 
shade ; and we may ultimately secure all these effects 
by judicious planting and selection. Among the trees 
which are associated with funereal images, by our 
familiarity with I^glish literature, the yew is the most 
important. It is considered by all nations as emblemat- 
ical of sorrow for the dead ; it has been planted from the 
earliest times by the English in their burial grounds, 
and many of great age are still to be seen in those 
places. The general employment of this tree, for fune- 
real purposes, must have originated in the sombre shades 
of its foliage, and in it-s adaptedness to the topiary art ; 
and it will probably never cease to be admired as an 
ornament of the graveyard in those countries of which 
it is a native. 

The weeping willow is another tree which is asso- 
ciated with funereal scenes ; and trees of this species are 
common in American burial grounds. The custom of 
planting them in cemeteries probably originated from the 
suggestion of sorrowful images conveyed by the drooping 
character of their branches. But, notwithstanding the 
drooping habit of this tree, there is no expression of 
melancholy in its general aspect, which, on the contrary, 
is rendered peculiarly lively by the light hues of its 
foliage, and its floating, graceful spray. The weeping 



FUA'EREAL CHARACTERS OF TREES. 245 

willow possesses a highly poetical character, on accovint 
of the frequent mention made of it in sacred history and 
prophecy. It is a native of Palestine, and of the banks 
of the rivers of Babylon, where the Israelites sat down 
and wept over their exile, and hung their harps upon its 
branches. 

There is reason to believe that the drooping trees 
acquired the epithet " weeping," which is applied to 
them, from the resemblance of their attitude to that of 
a person in tears, who bends down with affliction, as 
with a material burden. This is the general attitude 
of sorrow in allegorical representations. This habit of 
growth is far from giving the drooping trees a melan- 
choly appearance, which is more commonly produced by 
dark, o-reen foliace : but it is in agreeable consonance 
with funereal scenes. There is a flowing grace about 
the drooping trees that is preferable in a cemetery to the 
stiff and formal shape of many of the evergreens. 

Amono; trees of the evergreen sorts, the different 
species of arbor vitre are well fitted for burial grounds, 
on account of their slender, pyramidal growth, which 
agrees with the general forms of the monuments. The 
shape of the arbor vita3 is not unlike that of an obelisk ; 
and its name, " Tree of Life," is suggestive of that 
immortality to which the grave is the humble, though 
triumphal entrance. There is a great deal of beauty in 
its foliage which is always green and never sombre, and 
hence it is ornamental in winter as well as other seasons. 
The trees of this species have nothing disagreeable in 
their habits, and they charm every beholder while grace- 
fully pointing to heaven with their slender, evergreen 
spire. 

Allied to the arbor vitiis is the cypress, called by 
Shakspeare " the emblem of mourning." This tree was, 
2l» 



246 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



by the early Christians, esteemed significant of dying 
forever, because, if once cut down, it -would never revive 
and flourish again ; but it was esteemed by the Romans, 
and many other nations, in their funereal observances." 
The European cypress is a long-lived evergreen, and is 
a favorite tree for burial grounds among the Turks, who 
plant it sometimes upon graves as well as around them. 
Under its branches the Mussulmans assemble for prayer 
and religious meditation, and to honor the memory of 
their buried friends. This tree, having never been 
naturalized in this country, is not seen in our American 
grounds. 

The American cypresses are not adapted to ceme- 
teries, as they thrive well only in swamps. The northern 
cypress — the white cedar — is a well-known tree, re- 
sembling the arbor vitas in its foliage, which is more 
delicate and beautiful ; but it cannot often be successfully 
transplanted from its native, aquatic haunts. The south- 
ern cypress is a grand and beautiful tree, but its foliage 
is deciduous. It sustains the climate of the north 
Avithout injury, and would be a valuable ornament of 
the low grounds in our rural cemeteries. 

In this family of trees we notie the ever-varied, the 
w'eird, the romantic and unpretending juniper. This 
tree deserves cultivation in our burial grounds, from 
which it has been carefully excluded, because it har- 
monizes with the rude forms of nature, rather than the 
tasteful representations of art. I would cherish it in 
these places, were it but for this quality which enhances 
the pleasing effect of plain and humble grave-stones, and 
because in its emblematic su^efcstions it affords lessons of 
humility. Not so sombre as the yew, it is sufficiently 
sober to increase the desired expression of the grounds, 
and it is consonant witli funereal images. When nature 



FUNEREAL CHARACTERS OF TREES. 247 

is dressed in the dreary uniformity of winter, it assumes 
a browner hue, as if it sympathized with the general 
sleep of nature. In summer it wears a brighter verdure, 
but, in its ever-enduring sobriety, it still blends charm- 
ingly with the universal brilliant hues that pervade the 
summer foliao-e of the woods. 

In Europe the pine is associated, in its funereal char- 
acter, with the yew and the cypress, and it is probably 
the most common ornament of the cemeteries in New 
England. Perhaps no tree which has been mentioned 
exceeds the white pine as a standard in a cemetery, 
though it is too large to be conveniently planted in the 
'burial lots. This tree possesses qualities which adapt it 
to almost every situation, where we would seek for seclu- 
sion or shade ; and the solemnity and grandeur of its 
appearance render it one of the most appropriate and 
magnificent accompaniments of the gardens of the dead. 

The management of shrubbery is hardly less important 
than that of trees. The error most frequently committed 
is the selection of exotics, to the exclusion of many beau- 
tiful and appropriate shrubs of indigenous growth. The 
acfvantage of the latter is that they require no spading of 
the earth for their culture ; and they also pleasingly 
remind us of the woods and fields. After they have been 
planted, they flourish without care, and present a thrifty 
and spontaneous appearance, which is more agreeable 
than the trim formality of the exotic shrubs and the 
spaded earth about their roots. It is a great enhance- 
ment of the beauty of the grounds, if all the shrubs and 
flowers appear to be nature's own free offering, with 
little about them to remind us of expensive labor or 
careful cultivation. 

There is a large variety of native shrubs which should 
always find place in our rural cemeteries. Such are the 



248 MOUNT AUBUKN. 

slirubs that grace the stone walls hy the sides of old 
rustic lanes and roads, which are more charming to the 
sight than the most elegant of artificial hedgerows. 
The small birds love to nestle in this shrubbery, which 
is' their natural shelter, and supplies them with an abun- 
dance of food. And if we would hear their tuneful voices 
over the graves of our buried friends, we must provide 
them with their native harborage, in a supply of indige- 
nous shrubbery, which will crown the place with deep 
verdure in summer, with splendor in the autumn, and at 
all seasons afford a shelter and a retreat to the songsters 
of our Avoods and fields. 

iiut with all these pleasant gifts of nature, half their 
charms would be lost, and half their beauty blotted out 
from the landscape, were it not enhanced by the rose. 
Mankind have universally agreed in placing this flower 
above all others of the field ; but of the endless varieties 
which have been obtained by the arts of the florist, none 
is so beautiful as the simple wild rose of the pastures. 
Vain are all our attempts to im})rove the simplicity of 
nature. Her gifts, as they come unaltered from her 
hands, possess a grace, and delicacy, and loveliness, that 
cannot be svirpassed ; and the wild rose by the side of a 
stream, and the sweet brier of the pasture, still reign in 
the hearts of all the true votaries of nature. 



FRAIL LOVELINESS. 249 

FRAIL LOVELINESS. 

By Mrs. H. J. Lewis. 

Oil, scatter not your leaves 
So lavishly upon the thankless earth, 
Bright flowers, sweet flowers ! My spirit inly grieves 
That swift decay so waits upon your birth ! 

Ye do but look to heaven, 
A few bright hours, and your fine fragrance shed 
Upon the dewy whigs of tranquil even, 
And glowing morns succeed, and ye are dead ! 

For you we hail the showers. 
Whose gentle baptism like a blessing falls 
Upon your peerless beauty ! Summer flowers. 
Through you how free the voice of Nature calls. 

It bids us leave the room 
Darkened by many shadows, some of care. 
And some that memory deepens into gloom, 
And wander forth where all is calm and fair. 

It woos us to the sea, 
Whose cooling breath has swept o'er many a wave ; 
And unto mountain heiglits, where bird and bee 
Never the tempest or the the silence brave. 

Througli wood-paths fringed by you, 
Cliildren of light and warmth ! it bids us tread. 
And list the song of birds forever new, 
'Mid the green branches, like a dome outspread. 



250 MOUNT AU]{UKN. 

Oh ve ! whose houi' is brief, 
Yet all sufficient for your blissful need, 
Teach us, with every falling bud and leaf. 
To lean henceforth upon the trustful reed ! 



FENCES AND HEDGES. 

In our modern cemeteries it is customary to erect an 
iron fence around the spot Avhich is a})[)ropriated to a 
single family, thereby setting it apart from the remainder 
of the ground. This appurtenance is plainly no orna- 
ment to the place, and the present necessity of it is not 
very a])})arent, though after an example is set before the 
])ublic, it is not difficult to account for the general imita- 
tion of it. When Fashion has sanctioned any practice, 
people will accommodate themselves to it, without regard 
to its needfulness or convenience. The original purpose 
of the fence was undoubtedly to protect the monuments 
from injury. It is manifest that no such j^rotection as they 
aftbrd is at present required, because brute animals are not 
allowed to run at liberty in the grounds, and if any in- 
jury was designed by men, the fence could not prevent it. 

The principal objection to fences is, that they cut up 
the cemetery into numerous divisions ; they destroy the 
unity and harmony of the grounds, and conceal the 
monuments and other objects which ought to be exposed 
to view. It is impossible to construct fences of any sort 
that will not produce moi'e or less of these effects, and it 
would be an improvement of the general appearance of 
Mount Auburn, if there were no fences at all except the 



FENCES AND HEDGES. 251 

one tliat encloses the cemetery. A fence would be both 
necessary and appropriate to protect a burial lot or a 
monument in a field or by the road-side. But in a ceme- 
tery it is pleasing to meditate on all who lie there as 
belonging to one great family ; and the sight of numer- 
ous little square enclosures, surrounded by a prim iron 
paling, suggests at once the very opposite of this. It re- 
minds one of exclusiveness, jealousy, aristocratic pride, 
of anything rather than that brotherly harmony and 
union, which are the foundation of the Christian religion. 

When I look upon these things, I do not believe them 
to be the result of the sentiments they seem to express. 
The practice might have originated in some exclusive 
feeling in the minds of those who first introduced it, 
and it would afterwards be imitated by others Avithout 
reflection. None will deny the impropriety of introducing 
into these sacred enclosures anything expressive of self- 
ishness or pride, or anything that does not comport with 
the Christian idea of equality. All would agree that the 
style of the grounds and of the monuments of the dead 
should not, by their expression, deny the doctrines of that 
fiiith, in which they lived and died, who are buried there. 
But it is not this expression alone that constitutes the 
objection to fences : it is chiefly their discordancy witli 
the general air of freedom, — openness and grandeur 
which the grounds would exhibit without them. 

After the designer of the grounds has tastefully laid 
them out, in a style the opposite of formality, in order to 
give them a pleasing and picturesque appeai'ance, it is 
certainly very unwise to destroy this effect by surround- 
ing the burial lots with prim iron fences. One or the 
other was a piece of impertinence. Either the fences 
ought to be omitted, or the walks ought to be laid out in 
the same angular and geometrical style, for the preser- 



252 MOUNT AUBURN. 

vation of congruitj. The same objection woulci not 
with equal force apply to the square form of tlie lots 
without the fence, as their shape would not be sufficiently 
conspicuous to produce a harsh dissonance in the general 
aspect of the place. There are some lots which are un- 
provided with a fence. When they are also without 
corner or boundary stones, every one must be struck by 
their superior air of freedom and beauty, and by the 
more pleasing effect of the monuments erected upon 
them. 

If the reader be not convinced of the correctness of 
these remarks, let him construct a miniature model of 
some part of Mount Auburn, or of any other cemetery, 
laid out with fenced enclosures, and compare it with 
another model in which the fences are omitted. The 
superior beauty of the latter would be apparent at once. 
The fences not only destroy the grandeur and unity of 
the grounds by dividing them into a multitude of small 
parts, but they likewise destroy all that rural appearance 
which it is so desirable to cultivate. I would mark the 
lots only by corner stones, the tops of Avliich should be 
sunk several inches below the turf, to serve merely as 
legal marks. A shrub might then be })lanted over each 
of these corner stones, to mark the boundaries to the 
eye, wdiicli would not be offended by so obscure a for- 
mality. 

Many people imagine that fences were originally made 
for ornaments, though it is apparent that they disfigure a 
landscape, under almost all circumstances. Little can 
be said in their favor, except that where they are indis- 
pensable, they are necessary evils. Let any one take a 
view of an extensive landscape, that is marked only by a 
very few fences, and compare it with another of a similar 
character, that is minutely intersected by them, and sub- 



FENCES AND HEDGES. 253 

divided into a multitude of parts, and lie will be struck 
by their injurious effect upon the prospect. It is true 
that the fences and stone ^yalls that mark the boundaries 
of our farms in the country are often interesting, on ac- 
count of their suggestiveness of some pleasing images ; 
but setting these associations aside, it must be admitted 
that they are only so many disagreeable lines drawn over 
the surface of a beautiful picture. Fences are not in- 
trinsic ornaments : they may be made ornamental or 
plain, yet it must be allowed that the most ornamental 
are not the most pleasing. I have seen many a land- 
scape spoiled by the removal of an old stone wall, 
covered with wild vines and shrubbery, and the substi- 
tution of an elegant fence in the place of it. When we 
are riding through the country, a road that is not 
bounded by fences, is generally the most attractive, 
and of those which are fenced the most pleasing are con- 
cealed by vines and shrubbery. 

As I have intimated in another place, the effect of a 
fence around a monument is similar to that of a hedgerow 
or boxen border around a tree. Imagine a grove of 
beautiful trees, growing at pleasing distances apart, and 
extending their beneficent shade over a wide extent of 
smooth green lawn or pasture. A view of the field 
underneatli the branches of the trees would be grand, 
cheerful and imposing, and would impress every visitor 
with emotions of delight. Surround each of these trees 
with an iron fence or a hedgerow, and we should obtain 
an idea of the injury done to the scenery of a rural 
cemetery by the fences around the lots. The beauty of 
Mount Auburn and of every other cemetery would be 
greatly improved if every fence were removed from it, 
except the one that encloses the whole place. 

Many who disapprove of iron fences think that hedge- 
22 



254 MOUNT AUBURN. 

rows around the lots would be entirely unobjectionable. 
But hedges, though more interesting objects of sight, 
divide the grounds into the same multiplicity of parts. 
They would be preferable, so far as they are natural and 
not artificial, and green and leafy shrubs, and not stiff 
iron rods. But they would hide the monuments from 
observation still more than the iron fences, and would 
present in a less degree the same displeasing formality. 
If I used them at all, I would plant them only on one 
side of the monuments, to form a sort of back-ground, 
for which pvirpose a mass of shrubbery, rather than a 
clipped hedge, would be preferable. 

It seems the most advisable method to mark the boun- 
dary of the lots by a very slight elevation above the 
surface of the path or space between the lots, or by a 
low and humble hedgerow of miscellaneous shrubbery, 
which if left to itself would never rise above a foot or 
two in height. These shrubs ought not, however, to make 
a formal hedgerow, but rather a series of clumps of shrub- 
bery, separated by irregular distances, and formal only 
so far as they are placed on the boundary of the lot. 
Taller shrubs of an evergreen sort might be planted on 
the back side of the lot, forming a background to the 
monuments. After this the whole surface should be 
covered with turfs, consisting of moss intermingled with 
wild flowers, and divested of vines and stiff' luxuriant 
grasses. 



NEATNESS OF THE GKOUNDS. 265 



NEATNESS OF THE GROUNDS. 

One of the most important points in tlie management 
• of a rnral cemetery, is to preserve throughout the year a 
neatness of the grounds : not that every path and every 
lot should look as if the gardener with his spade and 
shears was constantly at work ; but rather that the paths 
should contain no unsightly weeds, and that the lots 
should be free from all litter and rubbish. At present 
this neatness is preserved only by means of a great deal 
■of expensive labor; and this labor being frequently 
omitted in certain cases, the weeds and decayed stalks of 
plants accumulate and become offensive to the sight. 
When we go into the wild pastures we see but little of 
this tangled and unsightly appearance, which seems, 
therefore, to be the result of tillage. In the pastures the 
plants that appear first in the season are not so luxuriant 
as the later ones, and the decayed stalks of the early 
plants are therefore covered and concealed by the more 
exuberant growth of those which succeed them ; and 
not until the hard autumnal frosts arrive, do we see any 
accumulations of decayed plants. It is not so in grounds 
which are subjected to tillage, causing early in the sea- 
son a luxuriant crop of plants, and forming a mass of 
decayed stalks and foliage at an early period. The cul- 
tivated grasses grow with so much luxuriance that they 
must be frequently cut in order to preserve a neat surface 
in a garden or a cemetery. 

The remedy for this evil and this expense is to pursue 
a system of embellishment that requires no tillage. At 
present the greatest effort is made to preserve a smooth 
shaven lawn, and to cultivate the best lawn grasses. 



256 MOUNT AUBURN. 

These require, from the first, a deep and fertile soil : 
otherwise the native and more vioorous grasses would 
quickly supersede them, or '■' run them out." To keep 
them in good condition, — to preserve anything like an 
appearance of neatness, — they must be cut six or eight 
times during the season ; and in a place like Mount Au- 
burn, the scythe cannot be used, and the gardener must 
perform almost the whole labor with the shears or the 
pruning hook. If the grasses are allowed to remain un- 
cut until they have flowered, they cover the ground with 
their stiff stalks, and spoil the verdure and softness of the 
surface. The aggregate expense of keeping all the grass 
of the cemetery in proper condition, from iMay to Sep- 
tember, is immense , and the larger the proportion of 
lawn grasses and other cultivated plants, the greater the 
amount and expense of the labor required to keep the 
place in order. The consequence of this difficulty and 
expense is, that certain portions of the grounds are fre- 
quently neglected, and too often present a tangled growth 
of herbs and o-rasses from midsummer till the end of the 
year. 

All this trouble might be avoided, if the enclosures 
were covered with sods taken from the wild upland pas- 
tures, in which there is a large proportion of lichens and 
mosses, that furnish a bed for the wild flowers, and check 
the luxuriance of the grasses. When these turfs are 
used, they should be laid upon a thin and natural soil, 
and all the rank species of wild grass should be eradi- 
cated. If they are placed upon a good garden soil, that 
Ims been well composted, the herbs of luxuriant growth 
will " kill out " all the mosses and wild flowers. The 
latter require a certain amount of shade and protection, 
but not a deep nor fertile soil. If, instead of an iron 
fence, the lots w-ere surrounded wath a miscellaneous 



NEATNESS OF THE GROUNDS 257 

growtli of wild shrubbery, the ground would receive 
that sort of shade and protection which nature affords 
the flowers and mosses in the wild lands, and a constant 
verdure would be produced by the mosses, and a contin- 
ued succession of flowers. The grounds in the lots 
would not require any culture : nothing more would be 
necessary than to eradicate by the hand such plants as 
are too luxuriant, and those of a thorny description. No 
spade, nor scythe, nor shears, would need to be used from 
the beginning to the end of the season ; and the visitor 
would behold a perpetual series of wild flowers, and 
flowering shrubbery, without any of the ordinary ex- 
pense of tillage. 

The principal labor which would be required is to 
})rocure and lay down the sods, and in some cases, Avlien 
the soil was not favorable, to renew the sods, which 
ought, in all cases, to be taken from upland tracts, because 
it is presumed that the burial lots, if originally wet, are 
made artificially dry. The cemetery, if universally 
treated in this manner, ^vould wear the appeafance of 
nature without its redundances — an appearance which 
would be delightful to all, and confessedly superior to 
the present highly dressed and artificial look, combined 
with a weedy and tangled growtli in those places which 
have been neglected a few days. Some people associate 
a tangled and weedy appearance with wild lands : but a 
close observation would prove to them their mistake. 
This appearance is seen in a neglected garden and other 
tilled lands, but seldom or never in lands which are in a 
state of nature. 

I would admit into a rural cemetery, ijo work at all for 
the scythe or the shears, if it be possible to avoid it. 
The spade should also finish its work, after having com- 
pleted the grave, covered it and sodded the surface. I 
22* 



258 MOUNT AUBURN. 

would have no spaded borders of earth for the cultiva- 
tion of flowers that requii'e the fostering hand of the 
gardener. In the place of the crocus, the hyacinth, and 
the daffodil, the yellow Bethlehem star, the Canadian 
columbine, the anemone and the violet, should spangle 
the virgin turf, green with the mosses that gladden the 
sight of the rambler in the fields. It wonld be delight- 
ful to mourners to see the familiar faces of the field- 
flowers around the graves of their friends, coming up 
and unbidden, as if nature had reared them for the com- 
memoration of the dead. 

Thorns and briers may be easily exterminated ; for 
though they are the usual, they are not the necessary 
accompaniments of the wild flowers. Among the shrub- 
bery, or in the wire-work of the fence, the clematis and 
the glycine would wreathe their vines and their blossoms, 
like the drapery of mourning, but without its gloom. 
The violet and the anemone would greet the visitor in 
the spring of the year, yielding their places in the sum- 
mer to rtie graceful neottia, and the sweet-scented con- 
sumption flower, nntil autumn brought up the rear with 
the purple gerardia, the trichostema, and the pensive 
and solitary blue fringed gentian. The grave, under 
these circumstances, would never be without its flowers, 
coming up to greet the mourner without his care, and 
surprising him with their constant variety. I can imag- 
ine that a native of Great Britain would be pleased to 
see the daisy and the cowslip npon the grave of a friend, 
because these would awaken pleasing memories of his 
native land, and of the scenes of his early days. But to 
a New Englander, who from his childhood has been 
familiar with the wildings of the wood and the pasture, 
no foreign flowers would seem half so charmino;. 

It is not the design of these remarks to recommend an 



NEATNESS OF THE GROUNDS. 



259 



imitation of natural wildness, but merely a substitution 
of mossy turfs and wild flowers, in the place of lawn 
grasses and exotic flowers. The avenues and paths 
should be covered with a neat spread of gravel, and all 
weeds, thorns, briers, and other noxious plants, should be 
eradicated. I would recommend the moss grown sods 
of the pasture, instead of lawn grasses, wherever the 
former could be substituted for the latter. This may 
certainly be done in the burial lots, and perhaps in all 
parts of the cemetery. The more general this substi- 
tution, the less will be the labor and expense of keeping 
the grounds in order. 

The reader should bear in mind that that sort of ex- 
pensive preparation of the soil which is necessary for the 
o-rowth of lawn g-rasses, foreign bulbs and annuals, and 
indeed for all exotics, whether they are shrubby or her- 
baceous, is absolutely fatal to the wild flowers. If we 
would have these, we should dispense with the others. 
If we would have the crocus, the hyacinth, and the nar- 
cissus, we cannot have the wood anemone, the pyrola, 
the orchis, nor the ground laurel. If we would cultivate 
any of the former, we must dispense with all of the latter. 
The exotics are cultivated only in a rich soil, and require 
the constant attention of a gardener. The wild flow- 
ers, in a charming variety, may be made to come up year 
after year, without any other trouble than the first plant- 
ing of the sods upon a natural soil, Avhich is an indispen- 
sable condition, and occasionally rooting up a plant that 
was usurping too much space, and by divesting the spot 
of thorns and briers. 



MOUMT AUBURN. 

OUR LOST CHILDHOOD 

By Miss L. L. A. Vert. 

Whither lias our Childliood fled ? 

We look not out with the same eyes ; — 
The morning's rosy blushes spread, 

And Nature paints her bluest skies, 
But Heaven lies no more overhead. 

The road-side flower looks smiling up, 
But fairies drink the dew no more 

The morning sprinkles in its cup ; 

Nor dance upon its leaves' green floor, 

And 'neath the moonbeams careless sup. 

Time once seemed a rosy boy, — 

And while we frolicked he stood still, 

Seemed in our sports to find a joy ; 
But now he drives us at his will, — 

We work as slaves in his employ. 

Once the earth for us was made ; 

We revelled in its sunshine warm ; 
Ours were the flowers that decked the glade, 

Our plaything was the wintry storm. 
Now what we own is marked by sexton's spade, 

We gaze upon a lock of hair, 

And marvel if its gold were ours ; — 

If eyes so faded erst were fair ; — 

If cheeks once blossomed like the flowers, 

So palHd now and hned by care ! 



OUR LOST CHILDHOOD. 



2G1 



Earth's childhood comes with every Spring ; 

But ours soon spent returns no more ; 
Earth sees but once its blossoming, 

Time counts but once its treasures o'er ; — 
But mem'ry still to it will cling. 

* 

And Faith points out where yet again 
The Soul its robes of white shall wear 

Without a blemish or a stain : 
Blest is the Angel that shall bear 

The Soul its childhood to regain. 



OXNARD'S MONUMENT. 

This is a Gothic monument erected to the memory of Heney Oxnard, 
who in his early life was a sea-captain, and afterwards became a mer- 
chant in Boston. 



MOMUMEA'TAL TREES. 263 



MONUMENTAL TREES. 

" This is tlie bower she loved, 
And here is the tree she planted." 

In some parts of the continent of Europe, parents, in 
in compliance witli an ancient custom, are in tlie liabit 
of planting a tree at the birth of every child. This tree 
is ever afterwards identified with the individual for 
wdiom it was planted ; it is associated with his life, and, 
when he is dead, it is viewed by his friends and com- 
panions as a living monument to his memory. I have 
often thought that we might dei'ive from this custom a 
hint, to be turned to an important advantage ; that, in 
in the place of marble, our departed friends might be 
commemorated by a noble tree, that should, every year 
when it put forth its leaves, awaken fresh memories of 
the dead. After the remains of a friend are laid in the 
grave, a tree should be selected, not in the cemetery, 
but in our own grounds, and dedicated to his memory. 
A cenotaph placed in the ground, near the tree, should 
indicate the dedication of the tree to the memory of 
the person whose name is recorded upon the stone. On 
that spot it should ever afterwards be allowed to remain, 
and no profane hands should venture to disturb it. 

How much more noble a monument would such a tree 
afford than the sculptured marble. There must be some 
satisfaction in the thought, that, after we are laid in the 
grave, we are still doing good to our fellow-men. A 
monumental stone, while it commemorates the dead, 
encumbers the gi'ound on which it stands. A tree, on 
the contrary, is constantly performing a useful office, in 
the economv of nature, for all living creatures. To the 



264 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



earth, and to the creatures tliat find shelter under it, it 
is a guardian angel of nature. A century hence, if 
the land should be decorated with millions of these 
monumental trees, shading the earth, and holding up 
their arms to heaven, Avhence tliej call down a perpetual 
store of blessings to the living, how would posterity 
revere the custom that had saved so many from destruc- 
tion ! 

Trees, when thus consecrated, might be regarded as 
the medium of constant messages from the dead to the 
living, who might view in one of these trees the emblem 
of some of the transcendent joys of heaven. See how it 
is constantly shedding blessings and bounties upon the 
earth, many of which are unperceived, like those we 
receive from the hand of Providence. It puts forth its 
leaves in the spring, affording a beautiful image to look 
upon, and purifying and renovating the vital atmosphere, 
and in the autumn it sheds it leaves to serve as a warm 
covering for the flowers in winter. The birds that sing 
in its branches do but communicate those pleasing 
thoughts that cannot be expressed in words, but serve 
to awaken in our hearts a gleam of those joys which 
are felt by the blessed in heaven. When we sit under 
its shade in summer, we feel as if overshadowed by an 
angel's wings, so musically do the zephyrs, as they play 
through the leaves and branches, whisper of the world of 
the past and the heaven of the future. It is jjleasing to 
think, that when our friends are sitting after our death 
under this canopy of shade, we may be remembered by 
them, and that the tree that commemorates our life is 
the source of constant benefits to our fellow-men, who 
have not yet passed through the gate of mortality. 

Were the custom of adopting trees as monuments to 
commemorate our departed friends to be adopted, the 



MONUMENTAL TREES. 265 

most enduring species sliould be selected for this purpose, 
such as the elm, the oak, the ash, the lime, and the 
maple. The soft-wooded trees are not in general suffi- 
ciently durable, and might decay before the friends of 
the dead had passed away. After the selection of a tree 
for this purpose, a small slab should be set down into the 
earth, near the trunk of the tree, and, on the face of it, 
these words, or others of similar import, should be in- 
scribed : — "To the memory of C. L., whose remains 
are laid in Mount Auburn, this lime-tree, under whose 
shade she has often reclined, is affectionately dedicated. 
May no profane hands ever destroy it, or disturb the 
birds that sing among its branches. Henceforth this 
tree, with its winged inhabitants, is sacred to her 
memory." 

The general prevalence of a custom like this would 
lead the public to place a higher value upon trees, and 
less upon showy monuments of marble, which have 
always been the most sumptuous in the early stages of 
civilization. As mankind advance in civilization or in- 
intellect, they prize nature more and art less. In a very 
exalted stage of general social culture, sumptuous monu- 
ments would become extremely rare. 

We should not neglect to consider that every tree thus 
hallowed and preserved becomes a public benefaction. 
The rude purveyor of the lumber market, who measures 
the value of a tree only by the surveyor's guage, and 
who is never at peace as long as a single old oak or 
elm, or other valuable timber tree is standing, which can 
be purchased with money, would know that the curse of 
the whole community would be upon him, if he allowed 
his venal hands to touch one of these monumental trees. 
Religion and affection might succeed in preserving what 
reason, and taste, and philanthropy, have advocated in 
23 



206 MOUNT AUBURN. 

vain for the last century. Men wlio have no regard for 
a tree as one of the noblest works of nature, and one of 
the greatest gifts of heaven to mankind, who have not 
science enough to understand its value in the economy 
of nature, nor taste enough to appreciate its beauty, may 
feel some religious respect for an object that has been 
selected to commemorate the death of a friend. Posterity, 
who may take an invidious satisfaction in destroying the 
works of vanity, when they have become inconveniently 
and oppressively numerous, would respect these trees as 
heir-looms from their ancestors. And how vastly more 
noble a monument to any one's memory, a century hence, 
must an elm be regarded, which is tlia pride of every 
beholder, than the proudest marble monument and sculp- 
tured effigy in Westminster Abbey. 



THE PAST OF AMERICA. 267 

THE PAST OF AMERICA. 

By Florence. 

Time hath a mighty power, to wliich we all mast bend. 
He tears away the young, the loved, the beautiful, from 
our grasp, like flowers which the autumn's breath has 
withered. But not alone does he hide from us the light 
of youth and loveliness ; he touches with his effacing 
fino-ers the tablet of the soul, — he erases the loves, the 
friendship, the memories, which years of agony, it may 
be, had imprinted there ; he makes the past, almost like 
the future, a blank. The proudest work of art, beneath 
his touch, is levelled with the dust, and its memory be- 
comes but a lingering shadow on the magic mirror of the 
heart. Yet, strange to say, Ave look upon the wrecks 
which he has made, with an intensity of interest, which 
the days of their glory could never have awakened. We 
reverence the hoary head, for revolutions have passed 
over it, mysterious and strange. We gaze with deep 
and unchanging emotions upon the silver hair which his 
touch has whitened, for it falls over a brow that possesses 
a greater charm, because it is hidden from our knowledge. 

We look upon the magnificent structures of the artist 
with delight, because they awaken in us that nice per- 
ception of the beautiful, which affords us exquisite pleas- 
ure. We admire the beauty of the design, and the taste 
and skill displayed in the execution ; but never does the 
structure in its meridian glory become as dear to us, as 
when the frosts of time have beautified and adorned it ; 
when it becomes a part of the past, and linked with deeds 
of high device, and manly daring, with gentle tales of the 
affections, of bower and hall, of heart and lute. We 
admire it at first, we love it at last. It comes into the 



268 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



inner soul, and we pour over it the fitful and changing 
effusions of the fancy ; we invest it with a charm, wrought 
of imagination and feelino-. Earth holds no home so 
sweet as that which high romance and poetic enthusiasm 
have halloAved. I have gazed upon the grouping of fluted 
columns, under high and swelling domes, and have turned 
from their newness, their nakedness of feeling, to the 
humble cottage by the wayside, with the deepest and 
most intense emotion. There was poetry in its moss- 
covered Avails which could never invest the first. Here 
the fire of the household hearth had burned brightly, — 
the prattle of childhood had been heard, — life's tender- 
est, holiest charities, had been displayed. There had 
been loves and friendships, and death had strove with 
love, to weave a spell which should render it sacred ; had 
given it a power to touch " the electric chain wherewith 
we are doubly bound," and to call up from the heart's 
depths, its best and purest feelings. Why is it that we 
turn thus from the future to the past ? There are hours 
when we speculate upon what is to come — upon the 
destiny of man ; but we cannot rest here ; we turn from 
the ideal of what may be, to the certainty of what has 
been. There is no abiding place for the wing, when it 
becomes wearied of its flight : all before is wide, illimit- 
able space, and we turn back with relief to the record 
of events and feelings with which time has combined 
events of fancy and reality, to blend the idealism of one 
with the harshness of the other. The first resolves itself 
into doubt and uncertainty of the most painful nature, if 
unassisted reason alone guide us ; the last into the mel- 
ancholy of remembered pleasure. 

It is thus, perhaps, that the veneration with which we 
look upon the remains of former ages becomes so univer- 
sal a sentiment. We feel interested in all that tells us 



THE PAST OF AMEKICA. 



269 



of a race avIio have lived, and suffered, and died ; who 
have trod the same path which we are to tread, and have 
entered upon the long journey which is yet before us. I 
know of no country which is capable of awakening these 
emotions in a o;i'eater degree than our own. " We call 
this country new," says Mr. Timothy Flint, " but it is 
old ; age after age has rolled away, and revolution after 
revolution passed over it." The whole valley of the 
Mississippi is full of proofs that it was once inhabited by 
a race of men, civilized and enlightened like ourselves. 
There are remains of ancient cities and fortifications ; 
there are implements of war and of husbandry ; there 
are proofs of mathematical skill and of science, which 
could never have been possessed by the rude and uncul- 
tured tribes which the encroachments of the white men 
have displayed. Yet so far back in the vista of time do 
these carry us, that even tradition tells us nothing about 
the race that left them for us. Did they exist in one 
portion of this great valley alone, there might be less to 
awaken our interest and curiosity ; but they are vast and 
numerous as the territory itself, and furnish the most 
conclusive proofs, that it was once far more thickly pop- 
ulated than now. Bricks, medals, and vessels of various 
kinds, have been discovered in a soil which has been un- 
disturbed for ages. Hieroglyphic characters have been 
found inscribed in various places ; implements of war, of 
singular and difficult construction ; wells stoned up ; re- 
gular walls ; everything which could be necessary to 
prove the existence of a great and enlightened people. 

jNIr. Flint divides the former inhabitants of this coun- 
try into three classes, and attributes these remains of 
more perfect art to the first ; the immense mounds of 
earth which have so long been the objects of our curios- 
ity, to the second — a race less enlightened and civilized 



270 MOUNT AUBURN. 

than the first. These are generally found in the neigh- 
borhood of large cities and towns, and many of them 
have trees growing npon them, which are computed to 
be several hundred years old. It is not improbable that 
in these very places, where it has become convenient for 
us to erect cities, formerly existed others perhaps far more 
mighty than they. The question naturally arises, who 
wjre that race, and where are they ? For this no reason- 
ing can furnish a definite answer. That they existed and 
that they have ceased to exist we know ; but when and 
how, we know not. From one of these mounds in Ohio, 
tons of human bones have been taken. It is as if they 
erected these works of act, to astonish those who should 
come after, — then built for themselves a grave, — and 
passed away ! One of them, near ]\Iarietta, may be seen 
as you go down the river. It is no great distance from 
the river, and bears trees of a lai'ge size. It is impossible 
to describe or foro;et the feelings with which we o;aze 
upon it for the first time. They are too various and too 
mingled. We pass through the dense forests which 
have grown up since these people were lost in oblivion ; 
we stand where their homes were once made, and then 
come thronging round us imaginings of the past — dreams 
of what may have been, upon which reasonable conjec- 
ture can throw but little light. We are dizzy, confused 
with the rush of thoughts that overwhelm us ; the very 
sighing of the forest leaves, and the murmur of the miglity 
mass of waters, which the onward course of our vessel 
troubles, seem to come to us blended with strange mys- 
terious whisperings of the past. Oh, had but this giant 
stream a tongue, what could it not tell us ! There, per- 
haps, upon its banks, stood large and populous cities ; 
gallant barks, freighted with all that art could furnish, 
went and returned again. Men lived and loved, and 



THE PAST OF AMERICA. 271 

■v\\aned and died. Yet how ? Not, we di'eain, as we 
die, leaving others to bear our names and fortunes ; but 
swept in judgment from the earth, bj the fiat of the 
Ahniglity ! Many of these rehcs of the past become so 
linked with our home feelings, that they become matters 
almost of personal interest ; they awaken emotions differ- 
ent in their kind, yet most thrilling and intense. Wlien 
building the Louisville canal, bricks were found nineteen 
feet below the surfiice of the earth, laid in regular hearths, 
" with tlie coals of the last domestic fire upon them." 

Where are those who once clustered around these 
domestic hearths ? Here, it may be, ages ago, the 
mother's heart bounded for joy, as it rested on her loved 
ones ; the song and the dance made gladness around the 
hearth-fire ; here filial and parental affection found its 
home ; flowers bloomed upon the brow of youth and 
beauty ; hopes blossomed and died, and fading as those 
flowers, evanescent as those hopes, the feast, the bridal, 
and the burial passed away. Childhood, with its mirth- 
ful prattle ; youth, with its bright imaginings ; age, with 
dimming light, all sleep together ; and all have slept, till 
time has left but a dim memorial that they once existed. 

Yet in the midst of all this, the American turns coldly 
away to other climes, for the inspiration of high thoughts ; 
he looks upon the dim gray palaces which tell of the 
shadowy greatness of other days, and finds nothing to 
admire here, when in the very infancy of what he looks 
on there, was passing away in his own land — a race, 
perhaps, fi\r more mighty than they. He stands by Her- 
culaneum, with its buried greatness, he descends into its 
excavations, and looks upon the relics of former days, 
with an emotion which he cannot control ; he pictures to 
himself thrilling tales of the affections ; he raises around 
him a magic company, whom he endows with passions, 



272 . MOUNT AUBURN. 

with hopes, with memories, with all that makes life pal- 
pable and real ; he basks in the sunshine of beauty and 
of wit, and he courts the enthusiasm it awakens as the 
brightest proof that heaven has made the mind, which 
lives thus in all ages, immortal ; and yet he deems that 
his OM^n land fornishes no material for such high themes. 

Revelation after revolution is destined to pass over us ; 
and it may be, that in that future time, to which the eye 
of the spectator is bent, developments will be made of 
what has been, — of which we do not now dream, — that 
some future antiquarian will read among these relics of, 
by-gone days, of a race proud and mighty as our own — 
that while the hero of Thermopylje won the meed of 
innnortality, or the Goth marched in triumph to imperial 
Rome, — cities vast and magnificent were mouldering 
away, beneath the touch of time, in this Western world, 
— that a njttion whose origin these developments will 
discover to him, had passed through the stages of help- 
less infancy, of powerful inquiring manhood, of imbecile 
age, and had at last, mouldered to oblivion. Greece, 
with its classic lore, Rome, with its faded s[)lendor, Egypt, 
with its colossal grandeur, cannot furnish more to awaken 
those high emotions, than our own land. I reverence 
these things. I could stand upon the narrow pass where 
Leonidas fell ; I could gaze u})on the sarcophagi of Egyp- 
tian kings, — upon the mighty pyramids upcm which 
time hath sought in vain to leave his impress, with deep 
and uncontrollable emotion ; — but here, too, in the depths 
of the immense forests, Avhicli have grown up where their 
hearth-fires once blazed, I could muse as sagely upon the 
destiny of man, the weakness of his own futile plans, and 
the mighty power that rules and overrules all his works. 

America is rich in its stores of antique knowledge ; and 
he who would feel most deeply the vanity of human am- 



MOUNT AUBURN IN AUTUMN. 273 

bitioii and human greatness, needs only to dwell here 
upon tlie lessons which it teaches. Amid all this, the 
weakness which is attributed to us, of admiring what is 
foreign, merely because it is so, becomes equally ridicu- 
lous and unreasonable with the absurd prejudice that 
leads us to denounce everything unallied to us. The 
vast territory stretching from Maine to Florida, from the 
Atlantic to the Rocky Mountains, contains in itself won- 
ders of nature and wonders of art which no other country 
possesses ; and while we learn to admire what is worthy 
of admiration in other lands, let us also study and ven- 
erate the wonders of our own country. 



MOUNT AUBURN IN AUTUMN. 

By Mrs. Eliza Lee Follen. 

I LOVE to mark the falling leaf, 
To watch the waning moon ; 

I love to cherish the belief, 
That all will change so soon. 

I love to see the beauteous flowers 

In bright succession pass. 
As they would deck life's fleeting hours, 

And hide his ebbing glass. 

I love the rushing wind to hear. 
Through the dismantled trees, 

And shed the sadly soothing tear 
O'er joys that fled like these. 



274 MOUNT AUBURN. 

I love to tliink this glorious earth 

Is but a splendid tomb, 
Whence man to an immortal birth 

Shall rise in deathless bloom ; — 

That nothing on its bosom dies, 

But all in endless change ' 

Shall in some brighter form arise, 
Some purer region range. 

On this fair couch then rest thy head 
In peace, thou child of sorrow ; 

For know the God of truth has said. 
Thou shalt be changed to-morrow ; 

Changed, as the saints and angels are, 

To glories ever new ; 
Corrupt shall incorruption wear. 

And death shall life renew. 




<> 



GOSSLER'S MONUMENT. 

This monument was erected to the memory of J. H. Go3SLEE,of Ger 
many, wlio had Ijccome a citizen of the United States. 



276 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



INTERIOR BEAUTIES OF MOUNT AUBURN. 

In treating of the interior beauties of Mount Auburn, 
I shall confine my remarks chiefly to the natural scenery. 
Every visitor must notice that the grounds are remark- 
able for a great and beautiful diversity of surface, as well 
as a large variety of trees. Long before any one thought 
of it as a cemetery, it was a favorite resort of students 
and others who sought it on account of its beautiful and 
romantic scenery. There are hundreds still living, who 
remember it as the scene of many a delightful ramble, 
alone and with company. It was no vulgar place of re- 
creation ; but a spot whither the thoughtful and studious 
fled for that needful rest from mental weariness, or for 
employing themselves in those studies of nature which 
are even better than entire repose from labor. 

Many a student has resorted to these grounds for his 
first botanical explorations, as they were the nearest in 
the vicinity of the Colleges, where there was any remark- 
able variety of native plants. In these protected dales, 
the spring flowers made their earliest appearance ; and 
in the same places, under the shelter of the old oak-trees, 
lingered the latest flowers of autumn. The name which 
was given to the place, is associated with some of the 
most interesting poetic images, and served to endear it 
still more to the readers and admirers of the most de- 
lightful poem in the language. Every spot within the 
grounds became at length hallowed in their remembrance. 
Every stream had its goddess, and every fountain its 
Naiad. Every wooded hill seemed to be the haunt of 
the Muse, and some rustic deity presided in every grove. 
There are many persons who may regret the changes 
which have taken place. When any spot is thus en- 



INTERIOR BEAUTIES OF MOUNT AUBURN. 277 

cleared by memory, we delight in preserving its original 
appearance. Everything about it is sacred ; and every 
alteration that might be highly gratifying to a stranger, 
is painful and displeasing to those who were familiar with 
it in their early days. 

When we examine the natural beauties of Mount Au- 
burn, we can easily account for all these attachments, 
and do not wonder that in the eyes of hundreds, it was 
regarded as hallowed ground, long before it was conse- 
crated to the dead. Some of those who delighted to 
ramble here are now dead, and their dust is deposited in 
these grounds and amidst the scenes which they loved 
in their lifetime. Amonc; the living; there are numbers 
who regard the spot with still more affection, since it has 
been thus consecrated, and who, when they visit the 
place, behold the scene of many a pleasant and studious 
excursion, while they view the graves of the companions 
with whom they were associated in their adventures. 
The grounds are, therefore, hallowed in a twofold sense, 
and their original beauties have received a double charm ; 
first from the pleasing recollections of youth which they 
awaken, and second, from having become the depository 
of the sacred relics of early friends and comrades. 

It is at the beginning of summer, and the middle of 
autumn, that the lover of forest scenery would find the 
most pleasure in a general view of the natural beauties of 
Mount Auburn. The trees, as I have remarked in 
another place, have but little individual beauty ; but in 
their collective beauty, when viewed from a near emi- 
nence, they are unsurpassed. When the leaves are open- 
ing, before they have assumed their deepest verdure, and 
when they are tinged with a paler shade of the tints that 
mark them just before the fall of the leaf, the woods of 
the cemetery present to the eye of the spectator a very 
21 



278 MOUNT AUBURN. 

interesting variety. The oaks are particularly conspicu- 
ous at this time, as their sprouting leaves are seldom 
green, but rather of a cinereous hue, intermingled with 
shades of red, purple, and lilac. The young leaves of the 
ash are generally of a deep purple,' becoming green as 
they advance towards maturity. The same may be said 
of the foliage of other trees which assume any of the 
shades of red and purple in the autumn. But all that 
remain green or turn yellow in the autumn, may be dis- 
tinguished in early summer by the purity of their green 
tints, differing from their summer tint only by its lighter 
shade. Here, then, are to be seen at this time, not 
only a charming variety in the different shades of ver- 
dure, but another variety proceeding from the mixture of 
other colors. 

In the later summer these colors and shades have 
become blended into one nearly uniform dark shade of 
green, which attracts but little attention. About the 
third week in September, the ash, the maple, the tupelo 
and the sumach, begin to assume their bright autumnal 
metamorphosis — the ash varying from a salmon color to 
a deep chocolate or maroon, and the others exhibiting all 
the shades between an orange and a scarlet. At this 
])eriod very few landscapes exceed the glorious display 
of colors which may be seen from the tower. 

There is not only a pleasing diversity of surface in 
Mount Aub.urn, but there is a remarkable correspond- 
ence in the laying out of the paths and avenues, with 
this diversity. There is no affected irregularity. The 
paths seem to take their course in the line of the inequal- 
ities of the ground, and the visitor can always find a 
sufficient cause for every turn and bend of the principal 
avenues. In riding or Avalking over them we meet with 
constant changes of scene. If there be a similarity in the 



INTERIOR BEAUTIES OF MOUNT AUBURN. 279 

general style of the monuments, this sameness is com- 
pensated by the varied scenery. The ponds of Mount 
Auburn, though small, are a pleasing feature of the place. 
One of the most interesting portions of the ground, is a 
natural ridge, that passes over considerable space, from 
north to south. This has been named Indian Ridse. The 
principal elevation is calied Mount Auburn, and is one 
hundred and twenty-five feet above the level of Charles 
River, and from the tower which is erected on its sum- 
mit, is a grand panoramic view of the environs of Boston. 
The folloAving descriptions are from the pen of Mr. 
Safford, Editor of the Mount Auburn Memorial, a jour- 
nal which is peculiarly adapted to the wants of the 
visitors and proprietors of that cemetery : — 

THE SCOTCH BURIAL GROUND. 

" The morning smiled on — but no kirk-bell was ringing, 
Nae plaid or blue bonnet came down frae the hill, 
The kirk door was shut, but no psalm tune was singing. 
And I missed the wee voices, sae sweet and sae shrill." — Wilson. 

At the foot of Laurel Hill, the base of Mount Auburn, 
where Cypress, Walnut, and Fir avenues intersect, in a 
northwest direction from the Tower, is a large lot, sur- 
rounded by a massive iron fence, with the Scotch Thistle 
and Battle Axe for the ornamental part of the design ; 
and two figures of Saint Andrew embellish the gates. 
This lot is appropriated by the Scot's Charitable Society 
in Boston, as a burial place for its members, the sons and 
daughters of old Scotia who have died in this countr3% 

A number of pines, with their dark and dense foliage, 
ever verdant, interspersed with walnut and oaks, shut 
out the light of the noon-day sun, and protects the fine 
carpets of greensward which covers the spot, from the too 
hot breath of summer ; rendering it a pleasant resting 



280 MOUNT AUBURN. 

place for visitors to and from the Tower. The place is 
rich with pleasant memories, and aifords ample material 
for thought and reflection. Here sleep na|;ives of Ar- 
cyleshire, Falkirk, &c. ; the Pattersons, Gordons, Cam- 
erons, &c., who have here found their last resting place 
thousands of miles from their native shores. There are 
besides these a number of nameless graves, the occupants 
of which were also sons and daughters of Scotland, the 
land of Burns, Scott, and Wilson ; and around whose 
heathclad hills, extended plains, mountains, dells, glens, 
and streams, the warm imagination of those men have 
thrown the light of their genius, investing the whole 
country with the beautifully colored embellishments of 
romance and poetry, making her sons and daughters 
models of nobleness, purity, and religious faith. 

VIEW FROM THE TOWER. 

This imposing structure is built of Quincy g]-anite, on 
the highest point of land in the cemetery grounds. The 
highest battlement of the tower, is one hundred and 
eighty-seven feet above the level of Charles .River. 
The view from the top of this tower for variety and 
beauty of scenery, and for historical association, is prob- 
ably not surpassed on this continent. 

It is now the hour of twilight, and the more rugged 
aspects of nature are softened into beauty. Mount Au- 
burn with its hundred acres of graves, its winding avenues 
and paths skirted with cenotaphs, monuments, obelisks, 
and other memorials of affection Avhich are covered with 
garlands of evergreens and bouquets of flowers, spread 
before us. Its eminences are croAvned by the stately 
oak and walnut, its dells and glens bordered with ever- 
green firs and pines, and enamelled with flowers, the 
comljined products of nature and art. 



INTERIOR BEAUTIES OF MOUNT AUBURN. 281 

As we stand facing the north, on our right is Charles 
River, winding among its green banks, forming a beautiful 
semicircle ; before us is Cambridge College, with its 
classic walls made venerable by time. It was from this 
place that Prescott started with his chosen detachment of 
a thousand men to fortify Bunker Hill, on the eventful 
night of the 16th of June, 1775. Under the old elm at 
the corner of the common, Washington first drew his 
sword and assumed the command of the American army 
in the July following. A httle to the left, is the house 
now occupied by Prof. Longfellow, which was the head- 
quarters of the great chief during the siege of Boston. 
To the right is Charlestown with its Bunker and Breed's 
hill and Mystic River. Still flirther to the north is Med- 
ford, where the Vermont and New Hampshire militia 
formed under the cjallant Stark on the mornino; of the 
eventful 17th of June, to fight the battle of Bunker Hill. 
To the right is Boston with its Fanueil Hall and Dor- 
chester Heights. North-west is Concord and Lexington, 
where the torch of the revolution was first lighted on the 
19th of April, 1775. To the west is Watertown, the 
chosen seat of the Provincial Congress, from whence 
Warren started on the morning of the 17th, for battle 
and death. In this town are the United States Arsenal, 
and the old Puritan burying-ground, where sleep the 
stern and austere fathers of New England, contemporary 
with Cromwell and Milton. 

Beyond the circle embraced by the foregoing descrip- 
tion, the attention is arrested by the not less attractive 
beauties of other places, which though possessing, his- 
torically, but little interest, are in these modern times 
well worthy of a brief description. Beyond Charles River, 
may be seen the towns of Brighton and Newton. The 
former is one of the most important Cattle Markets in 
24* 



284 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



Larch avenue on each side. A large portion of orna- 
mental ground bordering on the pond, is enclosed by this 
new avenue. When the arrangements are completed, 
and this ground is more fully embellished with shrubs, 
Avith their dark glossy leaves and showy flowers, and also 
fringed with weeping willows, it will add much to its 
present attractions, already presenting some of the finest 
specimens of scenic beauty to be found in Mount Auburn. 
It is a deep glade in the forest, with an elegant natural 
mirror to reflect the beauties of earth and sky. Its banks 
are shaded with hardy oaks, interspersed with a few 
evergreens and Norway maples : at the north end there 
is a number of white willows standing in a commanding 
position, overhanging the water. In this wide vista of 
beauty there will be a strange blending of life and death, 
beauty with grief and sadness ; 

•' Pleasui*e's smile and sorrow's tear," 

will be here in close proximity. The finest view of this 
pond is obtained from Mrs. Loring's ornamental ground 
at the head ; and the best time for observing it is at sun- 
set, while the dark forest lies softened by twilight shad- 
ows, and the reflective qualities of the water are increased 
by the slightly darkened atmosphere, and act as a faith- 
ful mirror to reproduce the beauty of an inverted land- 
scape, reflecting the dark tombstones, the trees with their 
highly tinted autumnal foliage, the image of the blue sky, 
and the distant stars. In the midst of this varied beauty, 
whilst surrounded on all sides by the emblems of death, 
the scene is highly impressive. 



THE NAMELESS GRAVE. 285 



THE NAMELESS GRAVE. 

By Miss L. E. Landon. 

A NAMELESS grave, — there is no stone 

. To sanctify the dead : 
O'er it the willow droops alone, 

With only wild flowers spread. 

" O, there is nought to interest here, 

No record of a name, 
A trumpet call upon the ear, 

Hio'h on the roll of fame. 

" I will not pause beside a tomb 

Where nothing calls to mind 
Aught that can brighten mortal gloom, 

Or elevate mankind ; — 

" No glorious memory to efface 

The stay of meaner clay ; 
No intellect whose heavenly trace 

Redeem'd our earth : — away ! " 

Ah, these are thoughts that well may rise 

On youth's ambitious pride ; 
But I will sit and moralize 

This lonely stone beside. 

Here thousands might have slept whose name 

Had been to thee a spell. 
To light thy flashing eyes with flame, — 

To bid thy young heart swell. 



286 



MOUNT AUBURN. 

Here might have been a wai'rior's rest, 
Some chief who bravely bled, 

With waving banners, sculptured crest, 
And laurel on his head. 

That laurel must have had its blood, 
That blood have caused its tear, — 

Look on the lovely solitude — 
What ! wish for warfare here ! 

A poet might have slept, — what ! he 
Whose restless heart first wakes 

Its life-pulse into melody, 

Then o'er it pines and breaks ? — 

He who hath sung of passionate love, 

His life a feverish tale : — 
O ! not the nightingale, the dove 

Would visit its quiet vale. 

See, I have named your favorite two, — 
Each has been glad to crave 

Rest 'neath the turfs unbroken dew, 
And such a nameless (n-ave ! 



^i&ft^. 





LORING'S MONUMENT. 

Erected to the memory of Elijah Loring, an eminent merchant of 
Boston. 



288 MOUNT AUBURN. 



HUMILITY IN ARCHITECTURE AND MONUMENTAL 
SCULPTURE. 

There must be something particularly pleasing in the 
virtue of humility, or it would not be so often affected 
by those who do not possess it. I believe the expression 
of this quality has never been regarded as one of the 
beauties of architecture, because this art, from the earliest 
ages, has been used almost entirely as an instrinnent of 
ambition. Still it is an important quality in home archi- 
tecture and private monumental sculpture, and its merit, 
'if not acknowledged by artists in these departments, is 
clearly recognized in the works of the painters. As 
modesty is a virtue in the greatest as well as the least of 
men ; in like manner humility sets off the graces of every 
beautiful structure and every beautiful house, from a 
peasant's cottage to the mansion of a nobleman. The 
public has committed the error of regarding humility as 
the opposite of grandeur : whereas the opposite of gran- 
deur is littleness or meanness, and the opposite of humil- 
ity is ostentation. Two opposites cannot be blended in 
harmony, but the combination of grandeur and humility 
produces effects which are beyond comparison greater 
than either of these qualities alone could produce. 

Humility in architecture is obtained by the careful 
avoidance of every appendage and every quality in the 
style of a building that seems to indicate an attempt on 
the part of the owner to render himself conspicuous. 
We love to see in the style of a dwelling, the evidences, 
not only of the comforts and conveniences of the house, 
but also, so far as they can be made to appear, of certain 
estimable traits of the owner or occupant. " I take care in 
my solitary rambles," says St. Pierre, " not to ask infor- 



ARCHITECTURE AND MONUMENTAL SCULPTURE. 289 

niation respecting tlie character and quality of the person 
who owns the seat which I perceive at a distance. The 
history of the master frequently disfigures the beauty of 
the landscape." The style of the landscape and of the 
house may also disfigure the reputation of the master. 
So congenial to the soul is the evidence of certain virtues, 
that we are delighted to see them emblemized in the 
works of nature and of art, and if this evidence he want- 
ing in the artificial objects of a landscape, we feel no 
desire for the friendship of the people who are associated 
with them. 

Of all sinister qualities pride is the most easily mani- 
fested and the most despicable, when exhibited in works 
of art ; for men hate, even while they profess to admire, 
everything that arbitrarily exalts others above themselves. 
We dislike, in the dress, manners and conversation of a 
man, any appearance that plainly intimates his con- 
sciousness of superiority. This remark is no disagreeable 
reflection upon human nature ; for it is not actual supe- 
riority that we dislike, but the ostentation or counterfeit 
of it. We are led instinctively to feel assured that the 
affectation of any quality is an evidence of the want of it. 
This is notoriously true of the affectation of wealth. 
Envy, which, after all, is but a hatred of false distinctions, 
not of real merit, — 

" a morbid better sense 

Of justice, that is prone to take offence 
At sight of wrongful inequality," — 

always attaches to false greatness, when its falsity is per- 
ceived. He, therefore, who aims at admiration, should 
carefully avoid all those appearances which are liable to 
excite the envy of his fellow citizens, who cannot, while 
under the influence of this feeling, see anything to admire 
26 



290 MOUNT AUBURN. 

in the object that has excited in their hearts this painful 
indignation. 

■ It might occur to the critical reader of these remarks, 
that if the principles they maintain were fully carried 
out, all houses would be hovels. With equal justice it 
might be said, if objections were made to covering the 
person with jewelry, that one was in favor of restoring 
the primeval costume of fig-leaves. Thi prevalent 
rivalry in dress, in fine houses, and in sumptuous monu- 
ments, is a rivalry in the display of wealth, not of per- 
sonal qualities ; and it is something that will wear away 
with a better civilization. When that enlightened era 
arrives, both the art of dressing, and the art of building, 
will be more of a science and less of a pantomime, than at 
the present day. In that era of better civilization, art 
will be exercised to increase our own pleasures and com- 
forts, and at the same time to confer an agreeable satis- 
faction upon others. It is used, at the present day, 
chiefly for the purpose of advertising, or rather, of pub- 
lishing the evidence of wealth. Monumental stones 
which should be designed only to commemorate the 
dead, are erected now to gratify the pride of the living. 
Such a desecration of the art of monumental sculpture 
will be ridiculed, like any other folly, when men have 
become wiser and less idolatrous. At that period of intel- 
lectual progress, humility will be acknowledged as one of 
the beauties of a house, or of any other structure that is 
designed for private or domestic purposes. This prin- 
ciple is now very generally felt, but not understood. 

Humility of expression is aided by anything that 
causes a structure to manifest less sumptuousness and 
cost than might be discovered by careful examination. 
A work that cost an immense sum of money may possess 
this desirable quality, while in a very cheap work it may 



ARCHITECTURE AND MONUMENTAL SCULPTURE. 291 

be entirely wanting. In arcliitecture and sculpture all 
dej^ends on the manner in which appendages intended 
for ornament are displayed ; and whether the assem- 
blage of parts seems to have been dictated by a love of 
beauty and propriety, or by emulation and a feeling of 
rivalry. In the marble of our cemeteries, this rivalry is 
made apparent by the constantly increasing endeavors, 
on the part of the builders of new monuments, to out- 
do the most sumptuous and costly which are already 
completed. 

It is a maxim in the arts to avoid raising aoTeeable 
expectations which cannot be gratified. For this reason 
a perfect orator would avoid high-flown language, and a 
pompous address. He avoids raising expectations, in 
order that every charming sentiment, every rational 
argument, and every happy turn of wit, may strike the 
hearer with an agreeable surprise, and penetrate more 
deeply into the mind. Pompous orators and ostentatious 
artists enjoy more notoriety : they are better " stars " ; 
but their words and works produce no indelible impres- 
sion on the mind of the public ; their reputation is ephe- 
meral ; and their works dazzle without enlightening the 
community. 

The shallowness of such pretensions is more readily 
discovered in daily conversation, when the speaker or 
actor is frequently before us. All persons are pleaded 
with a plainly dressed man or woman, whose manners 
and conversation indicate a high degree of benevolence, 
intellect, and refinement. We note with pleasure the 
entire absence of any apparent intention to impose upon 
us by etiquette or by elegance of apparel. On the con- 
trary, when we are led by the elegant and costly dress 
of a woman, to expect a corresponding superiority of 
manners, refinement, and education, and perhaps of per- 



292 MOUNT AUBURN. 

sonal beauty, and find, on introduction to her, a counte- 
nance of vulgar expressions, and manners and conversa- 
tion that afford incontestable proof of ignorance and low- 
breeding, we are affected with contempt. There is many 
a quality that becomes despicable only by position. Bad 
grammar and bad pronunciation may be associated with 
some of the most noble virtues of the human character. 
In a laborer's cottage, they might not diminish our re- 
spect for the inmates ; -but they become contemptible 
when playing a part in a splendid mansion and in fash- 
ionable costume. 

This principle is at the foundation of our dislike of a 
structure that exhibits promises which, on close inspec- 
tion, it cannot fulfil ; as in a dwelling-house that appears 
on general inspection to be built for hospitality, and on 
closer inspection betrays only meanness and pretence ; 
or in a monument that seems to be raised for the com- 
memoration of some distinguished benefactor of mankind, 
— but is found on a near view, to be erected in celebra- 
tion of the fortunes of a living person who has risen to 
Avealth, without any talents or virtues to distinguish him 
from others. Our love of truth affects our opinion of 
the arts as well as of human conduct. 

When expectations, but feebly excited, are suddenly 
rewarded by gratification, our pleasure is greatly magni- 
fied by our surprise. This happens, after contemplating 
the neatness and simplicity of a humble headstone, or 
tablet, when we read in the inscription, the name of 
some deceased person whose memory all delight to honor. 
The dead wdio slumbers beneath it is not demeaned by 
this simple tribute to his memory ; and the spot becomes 
sanctified by those poetical associations that always hover 
round a tomb so humble and so picturesque. The name 
even of Washington may be demeaned by the ambition 



ARCHITECTURE AND MONUMENTAL SCULPTURE. 293 

of those who would signalize his virtues by sumptuous 
marble, which, by its splendor, implies some doubt of the 
immortality of its subject. The principle here inculcated 
is one of the lessons of the founder of Christianity, but 
Christians have neglected it in their practice. I be- 
lieve no hero was ever exalted by a splendid mausoleum. 
Men are delighted to visit the spot in which he was in- 
terred, and a durable monumental stone must be provi- 
ded to mark its situation ; but in proportion to the great- 
ness of the subject, is there a charm of sublimity thrown 
around the scene, by a humble and unpretending mon- 
ument. Ostentation is vulgar ; and it degrades those 
who were truly great to the level of the mere votaries of 
fortune. If the spot where Jesus was buried were known, 
how would it be desecrated by such a tribute as Dives, 
if he were living, would erect for his own glorification in 
Mount Auburn ! 

It may be objected that this principle of humility 
would be fatal to progress in the arts ; but this is not to 
be feared ; it would, on the contrary serve to give them 
a more rational and pleasing direction. The object of 
ornamental art is to give pleasure, and it is misdirected 
when it is used only for mere display. No man comes 
away with a feeling of genuine pleasure from a gaudy 
display of the idols of another's ambition ; but he is 
always filled with delight by looking at objects tliat 
vividly awaken in the mind those cheerful and compla- 
cent feelings, which arise from our sympathy with good- 
ness and benevolence. Our love of virtue is indeed the 
well-spring of our taste in the arts, unless this taste has 
been corrupted by fashion, or by the dogmas of arbitrary 
criticism. The best rules of art are those which are ob- 
tained by careful study of the effects of different works 
upon our own minds ; they cannot be learned by dicta- 
25 ♦ 



294 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



tion. By studiously analyzing his own feelings, almost 
every man would discover that he is not so well pleased 
with an object that suggests the idea of ambition, as with 
one that wears the charming expression of repose and 
humility. 



THEY ARE NOT THERE. 

Selected. 

They are not there ! where once their feet 
Light answer to the music beat ; 
Where their young voices sweetly breathed, 
And fragrant flowers they lightly wreathed. 
Still flows the nightingale's sweet song ; 
Still trail the vine's green shoots along ; 
Still are the sunny blossoms fair ; — 
But they who loved them are not there ! 

They are not there ! by the lone fount, 
That once they loved at eve to haunt ; 
Where, when the day-star brightly set, 
Beside the silver waves they met, 
Still lightly glides the quiet stream ; 
Still o'er it falls the soft moonbeam ; 
But they who used their bliss to share 
With loved hearts by it, are not there ! 

They are not there ! by the dear hearth, 
That once beheld their harmless mirth ; 
When through their joy came no vain fear, 
And o'er their smiles no darkening tear 



ON THE AFFLICTIONS OF LIFE. 

It burns not now a beacon star ; 
'T is cold and fireless as they are ; 
Where is the glow it used to wear ? — 
'T is felt no more — they are not there ! 

Where are they then ? — Oh ! passed away, 
Like blossoms withered in a day ;• 
Or, as the waves go swiftly by. 
Or, as the lightnings leave the sky. 
But still there is a land of rest : 
Still hath it room for many a guest ; 
Still is it free from strife and care ; — 
And 'tis our hope that they are there ! 



295 



ON THE AFFLICTIONS OF LIFE. 

Fkom Zijimermann. 

Who has not in the moment of convalescence, in the 
hour of melancholy, or when separation or death has de- 
prived one of the intercourses of friendship, sought relief 
in the salutary shades of the country ! Happy is the 
being who is sensible of the advantages of a religious 
retirement from the world, of a sacred tranquillity, in 
which all the benefits to be derived from society impress 
themselves more deeply in the heart, and every hour is 
consecrated to the practice of the mild and peaceful vir- 
tues ! But these advantages become much more con- 
spicuous, when we compare the modes of thought which 
employ the mind of a solitary philosopher with those of 
a worldly sensualist ; the tiresome and tumultuous life of 
the one with the soft tranquillity of the other ; when we 



296 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



oppose the fear and horror that disturb the death-bed of 
the worldly-minded man, with the peaceable and easy 
exit of those pious souls who submit with resignation to 
the will of heaven. It is at this awful moment that we 
feel the importance of turning the eye inwardly upon 
ourselves, if we would bear the sufferings of life with 
dignity, and the pains of death with resignation. 

Retirement affords us the most incontestable advan- 
tages, under the greatest adversities of life. The con- 
valescent, the unfortunate, the disappointed, here find 
equal relief; their tortured souls here find a balm for the 
deep and painful wounds they have received, and soon 
regain their pristine health and vigor. Sickness and 
affliction would fly with horror from retirement, if its 
friendly shades did not afford them that consolation which 
they are unable to obtain in the resorts of fashion. The 
subtle vapor which sensuality and intoxication shed upon 
the objects that surround a state of health and happiness, 
entirely disappear ; and all those charms which subsist 
rather in imagination than reality, lose their power. To 
the happy every object wears the delightful colors of the 
rose ; but to the miserable all is blank and dreadful. 
The two conditions are equally in the extreme ; but they 
do not, in either case, discover the errors into which they 
are betrayed, until the curtain drops ; when the scene 
changes, and the illusion is dissipated. 

How unhappy should Ave be, if Divine Providence 
were to grant us everything we desire ! Even under the 
very afflictions by which man believes his happiness to 
be destroyed, heaven may propose something extraordi- 
nary in his favor. New circumstances excite new 
exertions. In solitude and tranquillity, if we earnestly 
endeavor to conquer misfortune, the activity of life, 
which, until the moment of adversity, had been perhaps 



ON THE AFFLICTIOISS OF LIFE. 297 

suspended, suddenly changes, and the mind regains its 
energy and vigor, even while it laments the state of 
inaction, to which it conceives itself to be irretrievably 
reduced. 

If sorrow force us into retirement, patience and per- 
severance soon restore the soul to its natural tranqviillity 
and happiness. We ought never to inspect the volume 
of futurity ; its pages will only deceive us ; on the con- 
trary, we ought forever to repeat this experimental truth, 
this consolatory maxim, — that the objects which men 
behold at a distance with fear and trembling, lose, on a 
nearer approach, not only their disagreeable and menac- 
ing aspect, but frequently in the event, produce the most 
agreeable and unexpected pleasure. He who tries every 
expedient, who boldly opposes himself to every difficulty, 
who stands steady and inflexible to every obstacle, who 
neglects no exertion within his power, and relies with 
confidence upon divine aid, extracts from affliction both 
its poison and its sting, and deprives misfortune of its 
victory. 

The opportunity which a valetudinarian enjoys of 
employing his faculties with facility and success, in a 
manner conformable to the extent of his designs, is un- 
doubtedly short, and passes rapidly away. Such happi- 
ness is the lot only of those who enjoy robust health ; 
they alone can exclaim, " Time is my own." But he 
who labors under continual sickness and suffering, and 
whose avocation depends on the public necessity or 
caprice, can never say that he has one moment to him- 
self. He must watch the fleeting hours as they pass, 
and seize an interval of leisure when and where he can. 
Necessity, as well as reason, convinces him, that he must, 
in spite of his daily sufferings, his wearied body, or his 
harassed mind, firmly resist his accumulating troubles, 



298 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



and if he would save himself from Lecomino; the victim 
of dejection, manfully combat the difficulties by which 
he is attacked. The more we enervate ourselves, the 
more we become the prey of ill health ; but a determined 
courage and obstinate resistance frequently renovate our 
powers ; and he, who in the calm of retirement, vigor- 
ously wrestles with misfortune, is certain in the event, of 
partial conquest. 

But under the pains of sickness, we are apt too easily 
to listen to the voice of indulgence ; we neglect to ex- 
ercise the powers we possess, and instead of directing the 
attention to those objects which may divert melancholy 
and strengthen fortitude, we foster fondly in our bosoms, 
all the disagreeable circumstances of our situation. The 
soul sinks from inquietude to inquietude, loses all its 
powers, abandons its remaining reason, and feels from its 
increasing agonies and sufferings, no confidence in its 
own exertions. The valetudinarian should force his 
mind to forget its troubles ; should endeavor to emerge 
from the heavy atmosphere by which he is enveloped and 
depressed. By these exertions he will certainly find un- 
expected relief, and be able to accomplish that which 
before he conceived to be impossible. 

A slight effort to obtain the faintest ray of comfort, 
and a calm resignation under inevitable misfortunes, will 
mutually contribute to procure relief. The man whose 
mind adheres to virtue, will never permit himself to be 
so far overcome by the sense of misfortune, as not to en- 
deavor to vanquish his feelings, even when, fallen into 
the unhappy state of despair, he no longer sees any pros- 
pect of comfort or consolation. The most dejected bosom 
may endure sensations deeply afflicting, provided the 
mind be not inactive ; it will exercise its attention on 
some other object than itself, and make effort to withdraw 



ON THE AFFLICTIONS OF LIFE. 299 

the soul from brooding over its torments and its sorrows, 
by inspiring the mind with ideas of virtuous sentiments, 
noble actions, and generous inclinations. For this reason 
it is necessary to cultivate in our minds the love of action, 
and after a dutiful and entire submission to the dispensa- 
tions of heaven, force ourselves into employment, until, 
from the warmth of our exertions, we acquire an habitual 
alertness. I consider a disposition to be active, amid 
that disgust and apathy which dry up the fountains ot 
life, as the most sure and efficacious antidote against the 
poison of a dejected spirit, a soured temper, or a melan- 
choly mind. 

The influence of the mind" upon the body is one of the 
most consolatory truths, to those who are the subject of 
habitual sufferings. Supported by this idea, they never 
permit their reason to be entirely overcome ; religion, 
under this idea, never loses its powerful empire in the 
breast ; and they learn from experience, that even in the 
extremity of distress, every object which diverts the 
attention, softens the evils we endure, and frequently 
drives them unperceived away. 

Many celebrated philosophers have by this means at 
length been able, not only to preserve a tranquil mind in 
the midst of the most poignant sufferings, but have even 
increased the strength of their intellectual faculties, in 
spite of their misfortunes. Rousseau composed the greater 
part of his immortal works under the continual pressure 
of sickness and of grief. Gellert, who, by his mild, 
agreeable, and instructive writings, became the preceptor 
of Germany, certainly found in this interesting occupa- 
tion, the surest remedy against melancholy. At an age 
already far advanced in life, Mendelsohm, who, though 
not by nature subject to dejection, was for a long time 
oppressed by an almost inconceivable derangement of the 



800 



MOUNT AUBUKN. 



nervous system, by submitting with patience and docility 
to his suft'erings, maintained in old age all the noble and 
sublime advantages of his youth. 

A firm resolution, a steady adherence towards some 
noble and interesting end, will enable us to endure the 
most poignant affliction. An heroic courage is natural 
in all the dangerous enterprises of ambition, and in the 
little crosses of life is much more common than patience ; 
but a persevering courage, under evils of long duration, 
is a quality rarely seer. ; the soul enervated by melan- 
choly, is prone to abandon its own efforts, and looks up 
to heaven alone for protection. 



DEATH OF THE AGED MAN. 

Bz Mrs. Sigouenet. 

Who scans the fulness of a powerful mind, 

Which more than fourscore years hath held its course 

Among the living ? We, of yesterday, 

Tread not its halls, with ancient pictures decked. 

Still freshening 'neath the ministry of time. 

Nor haunt its secret cabinets of thought. 

Where shadowy people of a buried age 

Sit in communion. He who died to-day, 

Was rich in imagery of other times. 

Ye might have asked him, and he would have told 

How step by step, his native place threw off 

Its rude colonial features, for the garb 

That cities wear ; — and how the cow-path changed 

To a thick peopled street, and the cold marsh 

To garden beauty. 



DEATH OF THE AGED MAN. 

Yes, he might have told 
Had je but asked him, how tlie dark, red brows 
Of the poor Indians, glided here and there, 
Unpitied strangers, in their own fair land : — 
And how" yon stately roofs and fair designs 
Of public spirit or bland charity, 
Sprang from a germ which he had helped to nurse ; 
And he could tell you stories of a race 
Now rooted up and perished. Many a date, 
And legend, slumbers in that marble breast, 
Which history coveted. For memory sat 
With her strong pen, and clearly noted down, 
On life's broad tablet, till the step of death 
Stole suddenly upon her. Then his voice 
Gave glorious witness of the faith that lives 
When nature fails, and told the listening friend 
That underneath the evei'lasting arms 
Broke the rude shock of pain. 

And so his breath, 
In one unstruo-o-lino; gentle sigh w^ent forth. 
Relying on the Saviour he had loved, 
Mid all the tempting vanities of youth. 
Here rocked his cradle, and there yawns his grave. 
To him, perchance, it seemed a little space. 
As of a bow shot, 'tween his boyhood's sports, 
And the thick coming of those silver hairs. 
Which were to him a crown of righteousness. 
— No more he cheers his household with the smile 
Of tender love, or greets the entering youth 
With the old warmth of hospitality. 
No more we see him leaning on his staff. 
Measuring with vigorous step his wonted way ; 
Nor mark, amid the mellowness of age, 
26 



301 



302 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



Those fruits, which throujrh the tears and clouds of life? 
Ripened for heaven. 

'T is mournful thus to see 
The fathers of our city, one by one, 
Take up their dwelling with the silent w^orm. 
We shrink to fill their places. Reverend men, 
Of such well-balanced and rare energies. 
Courteous and dignified, and true of heart, 
We dread to find their high example gone ; 
We grieve that thus th' insatiate grave should lock 
The gold of their experience. O'er life's tide, 
We steer without tliem, by a broken chart, 
Too late lamenting we so lightly prized 
The pilotage of wisdom, while it dwelt 
With hoary head among us. 



Grant us grace, 
Father of all ! so to revere the words 
Of saintly age, and so to keep the path 
Of those who pass before us unto Thee, 
That, shunning snares and pitfalls, we may come 
To the sure mansions of eternal life. 





*. 


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^»^^v 



H.S.CHASE 



THE CHASE MONUMENT. 

This moniiment — a solid sh<aft of marble — is situated on Sorrel Path ; 
is of elaborate design and finish. On the front is placed the following : — 

I GO TO PKEPARE A PLACE TOR YOU. 

ELIZABETH AUGUSTA, 

WIFE OF 

H. S. Chase, 
DIED August 23, 1855, 

AGED 39 TEARS. 

Calm on the bosom of thy God, 

Fair spirit rest thee now ! 
Even while with us thy footsteps trod. 

His seal was on thy brow. 

H. S. CHASE. 



On the right and left and back of the monument is also inscribed 
the following : — 

THIS MORTAL SHALL PUT ON IMMORTALITY. 



IF A MAN DIES SHALL HE LIVE AGAIN. 



I AM THE RESURRECTION AND THE LIFE. 

SCHUYLER CHASE, 
BORN Sept. 18, 1843, 
DIED Sept. 20, 1843. 

SCHUYLER CHASE, 
BORN Dec. 28, 18^5, 
DIED April 9, 1846. 



304 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



HALLOWED GROUNDS. 



Time, the great limner of nature, who tints the hills 
and plains with verdure, and garnishes the rocks with 
variegated leafage, enhances all the charms of old familiar 
places. Scenes that .in the early period of youth were 
bleak and cheerless, seem, Avlien time has given them a 
place among our distant recollections, clothed with a 
lavish beauty ; filled Avith the light of brighter skies, and 
vocal with sounds that are sweeter than music. The 
human soul, capable of a variety of affliction and of 
solace, finds in each something to alleviate its burden. 
In the bosom of these scenes, we are transported in imagi- 
nation back to tliis romantic stage in the journey of life ; 
the streams renew their ancient babbling, and return 
sweet responses to our silent invocations ; and " in the 
gleaming objects of the landscape, we behold the hazy 
pictures of memory resolved into bright realities. Every 
once familiar object opens a separate page in our history ; 
and when we are absent from them, the book is closed, 
and all our retrospect is dark and mournful. 

Man alone is sensible to those enjoyments that spring 
from contemplating the scenes of past sorrows. Nature 
has given us this sentiment, which is allied to that of 
divinity, to raise us above our mere physical being to the 
contemplation of sublimer themes. Hence there is always 
some religious faith — though it may be unattended with 
rational assurance — accompanying the sentiment of 
pleasure that springs from the remembrance of affliction. 
The benevolence of the Deity has converted all our 
sorrows into so many sources of happiness, causing them, 
after their poignancy is gone, to reflect back upon our 
souls a beam of divine solace, — as in the mists of the 



HALLOWED GROUNDS. 



305 



storm that has passed over, are reflected the bright hues 
of celestial beauty. In the clouds of grief that have 
passed away, there is also a bow of promise, upon which 
we look with melancholy delight, and thank heaven for 
this bright covenant Avith our sorrows. 

On frequent occasions we cheerfully renounce the 
pleasures of sense, to experience emotions that are divine. 
Thus we leave the places of gaiety and feasting, to muse 
in solitude over the old roads we have travelled. The 
effect of this sentiment is to bear the soul into the pres- 
ence of some deity, Avho inspires us with a cheerful mel- 
ancholy that surpasses pleasure. What throngs of de- 
lightful images sometimes hover about an old guide-post ; 
the same that used to direct our youthful ramblings to 
some desired resort, or that pointed our homeward way 
when returning from a weary absence abroad, — one that 
was always seen on our excursions of pleasure, or daily 
recurring errands of duty ! How many memories are 
lettered upon it — invisible to strangers — but clear, 
bright and intelligible to our own minds ! Every object 
that was prominent to our observation, on these errands 
and these wanderings, however homely its appearance, is 
beautiful in our sight : because we do not behold its de- 
formity, — for outside of it, like the vinery that covers a 
dilapidated wall, do we see the clustered assemblages of a 
thousand blessed visions, made bright and conspicuous by 
this talisman. 

What is beauty to the sophisticated mind of a connois- 
seur, or to the vulgar mind of one who is captivated by 
splendor, is not of divine source. Wherever a deity is 
enshrined, there dwells the highest beauty to those who 
can see, in its outward expression, the manifestation of 
this divinitv. The more liomely the object, indeed, if it 
be not disagreeable, the more charming is its influence, 
26* 



306 



mou>;t auburn. 



because it has no visual attractions, to divert us from the 
pleasino; sucro-estions of the imagination. It is for this 
reason tliat so many plain houses, plain tombs, and rude 
landscapes, have a charm in our sight which we cannot 
behold in others more tasteful and adorned. And 
hence almost all the hallowed spots in our remembrance 
are simple and unartistic. It is on the rude rock that 
overlooks an unadorned prospect, in the old road that 
leads through a mass of tangled shrubbery, in the moss- 
grown cottage, and the rustic hamlet, where memory 
delights to dwell, and weave for us the weft of her inspi- 
ration. 

The house in which I was born, and where I lived 
during the period of childhood, has lost its original and 
endearing simplicity by a few alterations. These are just 
sufficient to deprive the place of a great part of the 
sacredness, Avith which I have always regarded it, as the 
scene of my earliest recollections. The hollow, situated 
a few rods behind it, and which was then filled with a 
grove of locust trees, is now cut up into gardens ; and 
the gentle slope, so enchanting to the lovers of nature, 
has been terraced by the owners, for ornament and the 
convenience of tillaa;e. The locust trees are all sone, and 
with them the beauty of the place has departed. I some- 
times look over the fence, and endeavor to bring back 
to my mind tlie whole scene, as it was when I first looked 
abroad upon the earth under these trees. Then I cannot 
avoid giving myself up to regrets, and lamenting the 
changes that are constantly depriving the scenes of our 
early life of their sacredness and their identity. 

Other objects about this place are not greatly altered. 
The next house, with its old-fashioned garden, still re- 
mains in its primitive condition. It has not yet been 
ruined by improvements. When a child, I used to listen 



HALLOWED GROUNDS. o07 

to the cawing of crows, as I walked along the footpath on 
the sidewalk that was bounded by this garden fence. I 
look forward, with a gloomy anticipation, to the time 
when this place also will be modernized, and the foot- 
path, that leads through the grassy sidewalk, will be 
covered with a neat spread of gravel,, for the convenience 
of an increasing population. At present, this whole side- 
walk is to me a consecrated spot ; and as I sometimes 
stroll along its path, I listen for the cawing of crows that, 
strangely enough, are the only sounds which are vivid in 
my memory in connection with the scene. By a revival 
of these memories, one is inspired with a sense of that 
freshness of existence, which gave every object in life a 
brightness and beauty, that fade and become tarnislied 
at a later period of our years. 

In vain do we endeavor to fix our affections upon any 
new places as Ave are enamored with those of other days. 
There cheering voices come sounding up from every once 
familiar nook and turn ; and the enlivening echo of re- 
membered joys falls like music on the ear. Lights that 
have a quaint, endearing lustre, gleam fondly from the 
cottage windows ; and in the still moonlight, the shadows 
present their well-remembered forms with a startling 
fidelity, — as if time here had stayed his progress, and 
kindly waited to satisfy our lingering affections. As one 
grows older, these scenes become so many remembrancers, 
reviving not only the recollections, but the very feelings 
and hopes that, early in life, relieved every place of its 
insipidity. 

I am guilty of no egotism when I recount such recol- 
lections : for these experiences of my life are those of 
every person of feeling. There is no one who does not 
cherish some spot in his native village and among the 
scenes of youthful frequentation, as holy ground. Here 



308 MOUNT AUBURN. 

do we, as it were, meet again and converse with those 
who are now dead or absent ; whom we seek in vain to 
call back into our presence in any other situation. Here 
is a tree, in whose shade we have sat with friends long 
since dead ; and under tliis tree Avill memory give us 
Ijack their features more vividly than even a portrait of 
their living countenance. The sainted forms of departed 
friends are always sitting in these familiar arbors ; in the 
garden or orchard, in the nook by the seaside, in the 
path of the old wood. 

Happy are they, whose native and paternal dwelling 
remains unaltered, with all the objects around it ; who, 
when tired of employment, can turn thither and be 
charmed with all those trifles that yield it someAvhat of 
the sacredness of antiquity. Many are they, however, 
whose youth was spent in moving from place to place, 
and who have fixed upon certain outward scenes as their 
hallowed grounds ; — the inclosures of a schoolhouse, a 
once familiar walk, and the plain or the eminence whither 
they resorted for toil or amusement. Even these are 
often revolutionized ; and nothing is left that is sacred in 
one's memory, save the blank surface, where he vainly 
endeavors to picture .to his mind the absent landmarks, — 
the greensward then sparkling with flowers, the trees 
jubilant with birds, and the pleasant nooks enlightened 
with happy faces that are to be seen no more ! 

^AYhen I was a student, it was my custom, with two of 
my schoolmates, to walk over the road that led us home- 
ward, at the end of each quarter, and on our return to 
school. • During my three Academical years, between 
the ages of thirteen and sixteen, I performed many of 
these pedestrian journeys, which, so often repeated at this 
early age, have rendered the whole of this route a conse- 
crated ground. Many a time since have I walked the 



HALLOWED GROUNDS. 309 

same road — a distance of eighteen miles — for the pleas- 
ure of reviewing the fields, the houses, the lakes, and the 
woods, which are now a beautiful chart of the scenes of 
this period of simple adventure. I am not a gloomy or 
an unhappy man ; but my happiness depends greatly on 
these things. My spirits are nurtured by a review of old 
accustomed places ; and my hopes are still bright as in 
youth, when my mind is lighted by the simshine of the 
same fields in which it received its first lessons of nature 
and humanity. 

In every part of this old road, I meet the images of my 
companions with whom I was associated in these pedes- 
trian journeys. How beautiful is every clump of vinerv 
that flings its umbrage over fence and pathway, and 
every green thicket that is mirrored upon the glassy pool 
beneath ! And how like sacrilege seems the labor that 
has removed any one of them, for convenience or im- 
provement ! I am greeted here by thoughts that never 
come to me in any other place ; forms and visions of 
friends and of friendship which no other scene or prospect 
can awaken. Here they are enshrined by memory, made 
visible among the shadows and the sunshine, and appear- 
ing in joyous wakefulness among the trees and flowers — 
fond messengers of past happiness which the genius of the 
place alone can revoke. 

Memory is not Avholly the result of a voluntary eftbrt. 
The power of recollection depends greatly on suggestions 
from outward objects ; and if we Avould recall the events 
and feelings, the ideas and sensations of youth, we must 
visit the places where they first impressed our minds. 
Many a delightful fancy then rises to cheer the soul with 
the freshness of the morning of life, and many a. hope we 
thought was lost, comes to us, like ah old friend, witli 
glad assurances of the future. 



310 MOUNT AUBURN. 

There is a certain kind of melancholy which, unattend- 
ed with despondency, becomes a source of the purest 
pleasure which the human soul can feel. Such is the 
sentiment that is awakened hy the sight of those objects 
upon which both time and memory have stamped their 
sacred lineaments. The world is entirely uncheerful, 
when I dwell beyond access to these hallowed grounds ; 
and I must frequently revisit them to imbibe new con- 
tentment and new inspiration, to preserve the light of my 
soul until another review. It may be the inclosures of a 
dwelling-house ; a narrow lane that passes through a 
wood ; a hillside that overlooks the sea or the adjacent 
.villages ; it may be only a footpath by the side of a 
brook : — but it is something through Avhich I must pass, 
to arrive at my own paradise. 

A perpetual fountain of delight wells up from these 
scenes of memory ; and w^hen I see them changed by 
improvements, I mourn as over the grave of a friend. 
For these are the pages whereon is written the history 
of our life ; and with every old tree that is cut down, 
every umbrageous thicket that is removed, and every 
ancient house that is modernized by the hand of taste, 
some bright page is torn from this book of life. We hear 
messages of early friendship that come only from the 
voices of these streams ; music that accords but with these 
rustling boughs and foliage ; we behold beauty that re- 
vives only with these flowers ; love that wakes and weeps 
forgotten tears, never save among these dripping foun- 
tains and these echoing hills. Hence the wretchedness 
of a man of feeling who is an exile from his native land, 
and from the scenes of his early years. He sees many 
beautiful and pleasant places ; but no familiar deity re- 
sides in them ; no'memory haunts them. They are mere 
blanks: like strangers, they do not smile upon him, and 
h e cannot love their features. 



THE TIDE OF TIME. 311 

All our hopes and our affections, our dreams of love 
and of ambition, have each their separate locations, and 
as long as these places remain, we may still go and abide 
Avitli them, obtain a bright retrospect of the past, and 
look again with the hopeful feelings of childhood upon 
our more narrowed future. The forms of the landscape 
may disclose a little recess, where reposes some pleasant 
image of the past, enshrined there like the sacred relics 
of our affection or our worship. The violet that peeps 
out from the green turf has a beam that penetrates the 
heart ; and should a little sparrow but open its throat on 
the pinnacle of one of these rocks — his notes are like the 
melodies of morning, when it first greeted our waking 
from the peaceful slumbers of childhood. How can one 
live apart from these hallowed grounds and still find 
happiness ! Save me from the oblivion that must follow 
such an exile I Let me ever be surrounded by these 
familiar scenes, where the deities reside who lead along 
the hours, in whose hands are all the blessings of memory 
and imagination. 



THE TIDE OF TIME. 

As streams are ever flowing to the bay, 
Borne by mysterious force along their way 
To join the sea — we thus are moved along 
The tide of time, with all the living throng. 
The summer flowers, th' autumnal fi'uits decay ; 
All things inhabitincf this earth obev 
One signal doom. We pass from youth to age, 
Through many a pleasant, many a weary stage ; 
And as the winds, with pensive murmuring. 
Scatter the leaves upon their fluttering wing, — 



512 MOUNT AUBURN. 

So all things, as they rise, and hlush and bloom, 
Are seared, at last, and scattered for the tomb. 

New happy hosts, unceasing, pass away ; 
For time, their pilot, suffers no delay. 
In toil and tumult, full of hope and trust, 
They rise and revel and return to dust ; 
Some dropping by the wayside in their prime ; 
Some lingering, till forgotten in their time. 
While Providence still hides our journey's end — 
Thus dreaming, hoping, joying, we descend, 
Like insects in our path that creep or fly. 
Are born and flutter, and grow old and die, 
But love and mate, and chaunt their life-long tune, 
In but three revolutions of the moon. 

We chase our object, leave it, and pursue 

A brighter vision opening on our view. 

Still other phantoms guide us and allure ; 

For these we hope, and battle and endure. 

Our preparations are our daily feast ; 

The joys of our fruition are the least. 

The sounds of heaven, the bird's, the insect's lav, 

The gems, the fruits, the flowers that gird our way ; - 

By these spell-bound, entranced, in sun and shower, 

We laugh and linger, till our last brief hour. 

Life, luring, glittering, still is but a chase : 

We drop our prizes, to pursue the race. 

Then comes the final act : our course is run ; 

The pageant disappears, and death is won. 

But let us not lament this sad decree — 
This flite that stamped us with mortality. 
For there are mystic lights in heaven that show 
Man's being ends not here in death and woe. 



THE TIDE OF TIME. oiu 

Hope dies not with the visions of our youth ; 
It glows at all times with immortal truth. 
Whene'er we question fate — this signal light 
Gleams with prophetic joys upon our sight ; 
Appearing in the starlight and the skies ; 
Repeated in the wind's low symphonies ; 
Pictured in nature and embossed in art ; 
Beaming in thought, and glowing in the heart ; 
Pillowed upon the cloxids of morn and even ; 
Enshrined on earth and emhlemized in heaven ! 

This bright, mysterious spark — this fleeting flame — 
Restored to the great fountain, whence it came, 
Shall not be quenched, but shine with purer light, 
When to the deathless sphere, it takes its flight. 
And when the dream of youth is only known, 
As the sad memory of a joy that's flown ; 
And hope, that briglitly beamed upon us tlion. 
Like the full moon, that shines to bless all men. 
Has waned into a crescent, like a line 
Of light that dimly gleams, but cannot shine : — 
Then as remembrance wakes her pensive theme, 
And fancy gilds the vision of her dream ; 
O'er the dense gloom that melancholy strews, 
The angel faith will shed her fairest hues ; 
And truths and lights, but feebly emblemed novr, 
Illume the soul with an unfading glow. 



27 



, ?114 MOUNT AUBUr.N. 

THE THREE FUNERALS. 

By Miss Pardoe. 

I WAS once visiting in town, when in weak health and 
depressed spirits, and was slowly pacing to and fro on the 
broad pavement which extends in front of the prond line 
of lordly dwellings that overlook Hyde Park on its 
northern boundary, endeavoring to inhale new vigor 
from the keen air, and in the pale sunshine of a winter's 
noon, when my attention was attracted to a modest funer- 
al, Avhich advancing up Park Lane, was, with less solem- 
nity than is generally observed in such processions, 
approaching the burial ground at the termination of St. 
George's Terrace. The death bell was already tolling, 
the grave was awaiting its tenant, and I paused for an 
instant, until the little train of death passed by. 

There was a whole history of suffering, penury, and 
bereavement beneath my eye. The single ill-clad un- 
dertaker who led the way, the coffin of unpolished wood, 
the faded pall that fluttered gloomily in the chill wind ; 
the bowed and pale-browed man, whose mourning cloak 
i'ailed to conceal the laboring garb beneath it, as he led 
1)V either hand a little girl, to whose shapeless bonnets of 
rusty straw the charitable care of some kindly-hearted 
neighbor, perhaps as poor as themselves, had added a 
bow and a pair of strings of black ; — the one a child of 
about eight years of age, weeping bitterly ; and the other, 
still an inHmt of some three or four, gazing about her in 
mute but silent wonder, noAV looking earnestly towards 
the coffin, and then lifting her large blue eyes to the face 
of her father, as if to ask the meaninji; of so unwonted a 
ceremony. But the man made no reply to those earnest 
eyes, neither did he weep ; it avus easy to see that lie 



THE THREE FUNERALS. 815 

was lieart-brokcn ; easy to iiiiderstand that he had been 
poor before, very poor, but that he had struggled bravely 
on, while he had one to help, and to cheer and to support 
him ; but tliat now the corner-stone of his energy and of 
his hope had been removed, and the whole foundation ot 
his moral energy had given Avay. That tlicre, in that 
rude coffin, beneath that squalid pall, lay the wife of his 
bosom, the mother of his children ; and that for him and 
the two helpless ones whom he led along, there was no 
longer a hope of better days in this world. 

I felt the tears gush over my heart, as the pauper fu- 
neral^^assed me by ; and it had scarcely done so when 
it was overtaken by a second death train, consisting of a 
hearse without plumes, and a single mourning coach, so 
wretchedly appointed, that the struggle between narrow 
means, and the desire to escape the stigma of " a walking 
funeral" was closely apparent. Strange, that human 
vanity should uprear its paltry crest even upon the 
death-path — but so it is ; and I remarked that as this 
second funeral passed the one in which I felt so sudden 
an interest, the drivers of the two sable vehicles cast a 
glance that was almost scornful upon the little band of 
mourners, and the coffin which they followed. It is 
probable that I alone detected that contemptuous glance ; 
for the soul-stricken man, who was about to give up to 
the grave all that had been to him the staff and the sun- 
shine of his poor struggling existence, had no perception 
beyond that of his own misery, no pride with which to 
combat his despair. 

The sad dogma of life-in-death, upon which I was 
then looking, had not, however, yet reached its close ; 
for the body which was dragged to the grave by a pair 
of black horses had scarcely left behind it that which was 
borne to its resting-place upon the shoulders of two of its 



31G 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



fellow men, when suddenly there appeared, round the 
corner, turning from the Edgeware Road, a mute, bear- 
ing a plateau of white plumes, and folloAved by a hearse 
drawn by four horses, all similarly decorated, and a 
couple of moui'ning coaches, with the usual attendance 
of undertaker's hirelings. Vile mockery of Almighty 
God ! to Avhom we cannot even be content to resion our 
dust, without flaunting, as if in defiance of his holy pre- 
cepts, who bade us be meek and humble, if we would 
gain heaven, — our poor and sordid vanity at the grave- 
side ; rendered in this instance the more revolting from 
the fact that all the decorations of the funeral were grim 
with dirt, and tarnished by long use. Nevertheless they 
produced their intended effect. Every foot passenger 
paused by the grated entrance of the burial place, to 
wait the halt of the procession. Children, who had pur- 
sued their walk or their sports, heedless of the bereaved 
husband, or the solitary coach, suddenly paused in as- 
tonishment and admiration ; sauntering nursery-maids 
quickened their pace to participate in the spectacle ; 
reckless butcher boys pulled up their coats and almost 
ceased to whistle, as the imposing mockery moved towards 
them ; and when the varnished coffin was followed to the 
graveyard by the attendant mourners, the outlay which 
had been lavished upon the funeral was repaid to the 
survivors, by the earnest and curious stare of the idle 
mob that had hastily collected. 

I asked the names of the dead, — I might have spared 
the question. The emile with which the first reply was 
given — for I began with the widowed pauper — was one 
of pity, which implied some doubt of my perfect sanity ; 
while on the subject of the unplumed hearse, I was told 
" to look straight ahead, and I should see that it was not 
anybody " ; and so far my inquiries were unavailing ; 



THE THREE FUNERALS. -ill 

but as I glanced towai'Js tlic bustling officials, -svho were 
rapidly dismantling the more pretending cortege, and 
flinging plumes, staves and pall-trappino;s into the lugu- 
brious vehicle so lately tenanted by the early dead, I 
believed that I should be more successful. Not so, how- 
ever ; the undertaker and his myrmidons — and with 
these I had no desire to be forced into contact — were 
alone acquainted with the name of the deceased. The 
crowd, satisfied with the amusement of a moment,- cared 
little to whom they were indebted for its enjoyment. 
" Some young person," said a portly man, standing near. 
" So I infer from what are meant for white plumes." 
" You may well say meant, ma'am," remarked a decent 
looking woman, who stood beside me with a child in her 
arms. '' Lord help us ! here's a waste of money, tliat 
would gladen many a hungry heart. Miss Some-one, 
they tell me, a rich shop-keeper's daughter — poor thing ! 
She's to have a grand tomb, they say, and of course 
her name will be on it : but till that's done, nobody but 
her own people know who she is." 

A grand tomb! A name gi*aven upon stone I And 
the pauper mother will have neither tomb nor name. 
But sleep peacefully in thy long rest, O stricken sister ! 
The marble that presses upon the breast of the. proud, 
is only so much more that parts them from their God ; 
while thou hast upon thine unlettered grave the rain-drops 
for tears from above ; the wind that rocks the heads of 
the rank weeds that wave over thy brow breathes tliinc 
ever-recurring requiem ; and the deep blue vault of 
heaven is the eternal monument raised above thee by 
thy ]\Iaker ! 

27* 



^18 MOUNT AUBURN. 

PRESENT IN THE SPIRIT. 

Bt Mrs. H. J. Lewis. 

Not o'er that dreaiy void 
That the tomb opens do I look for thee, 
But o'er the still and pleasant summer sea, 
And o'er the green fields drenched in golden light, 
And off beyond the movnitain's silent height : 
And mounting star by star, till lost in space, 
I fain would see the glory of thy face. 

Which death hath not destroyed. 

Through forest aisles at eve. 
Where the birds' lonely vespers haunt the trees, 
By running brooks, where cowslips woo the bees. 
Where the sweet violet nestles in the moss, 
Where, mid o'erhang-ino- rocks the waters toss 
Their foam-wreaths to the sunlight, there thou art, 
Unseen, but present to the yearning heart 

Thou didst so early grieve. 

Thy name forever more 
Hath a soft sound like music, and is blent 
With flowers and song and sunshine, and is sent 
On every perfumed breeze, and through the night 
Whispered to moon and stars that beam more bright 
With the fair burden ; so, from day to day, 
We walk Avith thee along life's chequered way 

Sustained as e'er before. 

The form thou wearest now. 
Hath not, perchance, the old familiar look, 
And dazzled mortal vision mioht not brook 



ON THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD. 

The glory of thy face and vestments, meet 
For one made welcome at her Master's feet 
So we will wait God's bidding to behold 
Thee as thou art within the Saviour's fold, 
His signet on thy brow. 



319 



ON THE BURIAL OF THE DEx\D. 

By John Brazer, D. D. 

The appropriate burial of the dead is suggested and 
enforced by the natural sentiments of the human heart. 
Philosophize as wisely as we may, on the worth- 
lessness of our mortal frames, when life is extinct, and 
their component parts have obeyed their mutual affinities, 
and have gone to mingle with their kindred elements, — 
the argument is wholly unavailing. Let it be admitted 
in its full and literal force, it touches not the question at 
issue. This is one of feeling, sentiment, emotion ; and 
cool ratiocination is out of place. The heart is the fitting 
advocate here, and its unprompted and untaught sugges- 
tions supersede all argument. Even a stranger's grave 
is not to us as the common earth ; and the spot where the 
ashes of our departed friends repose is ever held in cher- 
ished consecration. We are not, and as a general fact, 
we cannot be, indifferent to the treatment of our own 
remains, even when they have mingled with the clod of 
the valley. The well-known Oriental form of salutation, 
— " May you die among your kindred," — has a deep 
significance to which the soul responds, not only because 
we desire that our final trial should be passed in the 
midst of friendly attention and sympathy, and that our 



320 



MOUXT AUBUKN. 



fainting sight should rest last upon those we have 
loved the best ; but also, because we would commend to 
their willing and pious care the poor remains of Avhat 
was once most intimately a part of ourselves, and hope 
they will hold in hallowed remembrance the places 
where they lie. 

But the appropriate burial of the dead is enforced by 
considerations of a different and most imperious character. 
All sentiment apart, it is a subject that must be cared for, 
in reference to the common weal. It is a public necessity 
that must be met. Our only choice is, whether the relics of 
the departed shall be " buried out of our sight" with de- 
cency and reverence, and with those appropriate rites and 
observances, which are equally due to the dead, and edify- 
ing and consolatory to the living, — or whether they shall 
be hurried away and disposed of anywise and anywhere, 
as the most obvious convenience may suggest as an oftence 
and an annoyance. The busy industry of the great de- 
stoyer leaves us no other alternative. The earth is literally 
sown with the mortal remains of human beings. The 
details on this point must be somewhat startling to those 
foolish persons who say to themselves, " To-morrow 
shall be as this day." It has been computed, from a 
series of observations, by a competent inquirer, that the 
whole population of the earth, which is now supposed to 
be between nine and ten Inuidred millions of inhabitants, 
dies in thirty-three years, which gives fifty-five deaths 
for every successive minute, or nearly one for every 
second of time. If we apph^ a similar calculation to all 
past ages, since men have lived on this earth, we shall 
at once see that, — 

" all who tread 
The globe, are but a handful to the tribes 
That slumber in its bosom." 



ON THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD. 321 

In the vicinity of Alexandria, of Cairo, and indeed of 
all the principal cities of Egypt, catacombs containing 
the relics of the population of past ages, extend acres 
after acres, for many miles. It is supposed that the 
whole space between the borders of Lake Maris and 
Gizeh was one vast cemetery. In the Necropolis, near 
ancient Thebes, it is computed, that eight or ten millions 
of the dead, lie in like manner inhumed. At Paris, 
when the churches and burial grounds were cleared, 
the relics of ten generations were piled up promiscuously 
in the quarries beneath that city. Indeed the necessity 
of making an appropriate provision for the sepulture of 
the departed is obvious in regard to great and crowded 
cities. As these ordinarily spring from small beginnings, 
this necessity is not at first felt. But it is one which 
continually increases with their growth, until it can be 
no longer withstood. 

We are aware, indeed, that all our pious care even for 
the security of our places of sepulture may be unavailing. 
The most stupendous piles that human affection or hu- 
man folly has reared have not sufficed to insure even so 
much as this. They have, on the contrary, often only 
served to tempt the cupidity of the invader, or afford a 
mark for the poor malice of foes. Those sepulchral urns, 
in which the ancients hoped to hold consecrate forever 
the ashes of their departed friends, are now found in no 
holier places than the museums of the curious, or in the 
cabinets of the antiquarian. Egyptian mummies, over 
which the pyramids have been piled, and which, as Sir 
Thomas Brown says, " Cambyses or time hath spared, 
avarice now consumeth. Mummy has become merchan- 
dise, Myzraim cures wounds, and Pharaoh is sold for 
balsams." The common fuel of the dwellers on the 
banks of the Nile is said to be the embalmed bodies of 



322 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



thcii- ancestors. The Arabs vise the mummy cases for 
firewood, and "an epicurean traveller may cook his 
breakfast with tJie coffin of a king." A chamber of one 
of the catacombs, near Alexandria, has actually been 
used as a stable for one of the Pacha's regiments of 
horse. The march of armies, and the violence of civil 
commotions abroad, have held in small respect the dust 
of the departed. Tlie royal sepulchre of St. Denis, where 
the French kinos of nine centuries were entombed, and 
whose wonders, according to Chateaubriand, " taught 
strangers a profound veneration for France," was violated 
and destroyed among the kindred atrocities of the French 
Revolution. 

Here in our own country, as is w^ell known, the busy 
hand of enterprise, that holds little as sacred that stands 
in its way, recognize nothing absolutely inviolable in the 
burial-places of the dead. A turnpike or a canal, or a 
railroad, have found no insuperable barrier to their pro- 
gress in the sacredness of the graveyard. But even 
though the tomb were safely secured from external 
violence, yet by the silent approaches of time, it is con- 
tinually Avasted away. If we visit almost any of our 
older burial-places, w^e shall find in the sunken graves, 
in the rank grass and unsightly weeds, in the dilapidated 
tombs, in the prostrated, half-buried, moss-covered head- 
stones, that time who " antiquates all antiquities," re- 
spects not the dead more than the living, and that at any 
rate, the care that has been hitherto bestowed on this 
subject has not rendered sacred and secure, for any long 
period, the remains of departed friends. Still it is a duty 
that natural feeling prompts, and decent respect requires, 
that we render them as inviolable as we may. We 
w^ould, at any rate, have them remain undisturbed while 
we ourselves live : and wdien it becomes our time to take 



ON THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD. 323 

our places by their side", we cannot but desire, that our 
dust, like theirs, may be permitted to rest in peace. 

But our interest for the remains of the departed is not 
confined to their security alone. We would also confer 
upon them some fitting honor, and we take a melancholy 
pleasure in rearing visible emblems of that worth, which 
can henceforth only be recognized in the remembrance 
of surviving friends. We would mark the spot where 
they lie by every appropriate memorial and adornment, 
as henceforth consecrate to tender recollections, to self- 
inquiry, to the suggestive lessons of the past, to good 
purposes for the future, to thoughtful views of the 
present life, and to those hopes and aspirations, which by 
the gracious efficacy of a Christian faith, are made to 
" blossom even in the dust." We know, indeed, that 
this care in perpetuating the memory of the departed, 
like that which we use to secure their remains, cannot be 
long availing. The enclosure by which we attempt to 
separate sacred from common dust, will soon be over- 
thrown. The trees long outlast the graves which they 
were placed to adorn. The remains of countless myriads 
rest beneath the earth, Avhich has. lono- aws since, ceased 
to bear the slightest external mark of their existence. 
" Who can but pity," adds the affluent and racy old writer 
above quoted, " the founder of the pyramids." " In vain, 
too, we compute our felicities, by the advantage of our 
good names, since the bad have equal duration, and 
Thersites is as like to live as Agamemnon." " Twenty- 
seven names make up the first story before the flood." 
" Five languages secured not the c])itaph of Gordianus." 
Indeed all biography is little more than a slightly varied 
obituary. 

" The annals of the human race, 
Their ruins since the world began. 



32^ MOU^'T AUBURN. 

But if the place of graves be peculiarly fitted to excite 
chastened views of the present life, and indeed of its 
essential nothingness, viewed as an entire and completed 
scheme ; it is not less friendly to those higher aspirations 
which centre on what is truly worthy and enduring in 
character. While we linger with painful regret over the 
relics of what was once inexpressibly dear to us, we are 
yet assured that all that w^as truly theirs and them is not 
also dead, but lives on in an undying life. And if it be 
our privilege to connect with their memories much good 
they have intended and done, their pure affections and 
virtuous lives, — these we know are not buried in the 
dust, but are still cherished in our hearts, as valued 
treasures there, and are safer yet in the remembrance of 
God. In the solemn verse of Milton we find utterance 
to this thought : — 

" Thy works, and alms, and all thy good endeavor, 
Staid not behind, nor in the grave were trod, 
But as Faith pointed wdth her golden rod. 
Followed thee up to joy, and bliss forever." 

And as it is the natural effect of elevated worth, in all 
cases, to inspire a kindling sentiment of emulation, so 
that " upon which death has set its seal " is peculiarly 
impressive. It is at once purer and more hallowed than 
any living example of kindred excellence. Those slight 
blemishes which nearness and familiarity are continually 
revealing in the brightest character here below, and 
which serve to dim, though they may not tarnish its 
lustre, all disappear, when it is viewed through the dark- 
ness of the grave and in the distance of eternity. It is 
henceforth regarded, moreover, now that the stress and 
strain of life are over, with something of that sacredness 
which belono-s to things "not seen and eternal." It is 



ON THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD. 327 

an often quoted saying of Themistocles, that tlie monu- 
ments of departed heroes, in the grove of Academus, 
would not permit him to sleep. And to what a worthier 
emulation should we of this latter time, be stirred, by 
the memorials of those friends, who having done and 
suffered well in their earthly welfare, have entered on a 
reversion of glory, that never so much as dawned on the 
mind of the heathen warrior ! 

The graA'^e, too, is not only a place hallowed to cher- 
ished and animated recollections, but it is there, after the 
first crushing force of bereavement is passed, we love to 
dwell on the immortality of pure and kind affections, and 
to strengthen those anticipations which look to a recog- 
nition and reunion with departed friends in a future state 
of existence. Thoughts like these are, perhaps, never 
fully realized but through the stern ministry of death, 
and are never so emphatically suggested, as by the near 
presence of the mortal remains of those we have loved. 

There and then we fondly cherish the conviction, that 
when we buried these, we did not bury those sympathies 
and affections which united us in life ; but that, as these 
flowed on together, in one united stream, through all the 
pathways of our earthly existence, so they will not lose 
themselves in the dark valley of the shadow of death, 
but still continue to flow on forever, when the portals of 
the grave are passed. We do not stop to balance argu- 
ments here ; we feel that there must be an analogy be- 
tween what has been and is to be ; that we cannot lose 
our social sympathies, without losing our identity as con- 
scious beings ; and we cannot for an instant reconcile it 
with the goodness of God, to think that he would permit 
us, nay, oblige us, by the very constitution of our natui*es, 
to cherish hopes so pure, so strong and so abiding, merely 
as a prelude to a sad delusion ; or that a love, which no 



330 MOUNT AUBURN. 

a possession" — of a burial-place. Abraham, together 
with Rebecca, Sarah, Isaac and Jacob, according to the 
promise, sanctioned by the usual oath of the period, ex- 
torted from his son, were buried there ; and Joseph's 
bones were carried into Canaan, after they had been 
embalmed and kept four hundred years. David praises the 
men of Jabez Gilead for their pious care of the remains 
of tlieir unworthy king Saul. The Jewish Scriptures 
threaten a denial of burial, as one of the greatest calam- 
ities. The prophet Jeremiah denounces, as a punishment 
of idolaters, that their bones should be "thrown out of 
their graves," and be spread " before the sun and the 
moon and all the host of heaven, whom they have loved, 
and wdiom they have served, and after whom they have 
walked, and whom they have sought, and whom they 
have worshipped, and they shall not be gathered or 
buried." 

Devout men, we are told, carried St. Stephen to his 
burial, making great lamentations over him, and our 
Saviour was pleased to admit the outpouring of Mary's 
ointment upon his head, because " she did it for his 
burial." Among the heathen nations of antiquity the 
same sentiment prevailed. Several Greek Dramas, which 
being addressed to a popular audience, were the best 
possible exponents of popular feeling, turn entirely upon 
contests, connected with the rites of burial. Tlie An- 
tigone of Sophocles is an instance in poiiit. Ulysses, in 
the Hecuba of Euripides, is representecT as saying, that 
he did not care how meanly he lived, provided he might 
find a noble tomb after death. These rites were not 
omitted in the fiercest wars. The earlier Athenian com- 
manders were punished if they neglected them, and they 
were observed even towards enemies. The important 
place they occupy in the poems of Homer is well known. 



ON THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD. 331 

The Elysian Fields, wliich those ancients supposed to be 
the residence of the blessed Manes after death, could 
only be entered by those, however worthy, on other 
accounts, whose bodies had been duly buried. Hence 
arose the practice of erecting Cenotaphs, or empty Mau- 
soleums, to the memory of those whose bodies could not 
be obtained, which monuments, in such cases, were re- 
garded as substitutes for burial. The Romans inherited 
from the Greeks, and rendered yet more elaborate, these 
funeral rites. The ancient Germans, as we learn from 
Tacitus, were punctilious in those peculiar to themselves ; 
and in more modern times, both in Europe and in the 
East, a similar reverence for the dead prevailed. The 
ancient Christians, according to St. Ambrose, esteemed 
the proper burial of the dead so imperative a duty, that 
it was deemed lawful, if necessary, to melt down or sell 
the vases used in the sacred ceremonies of the church, in 
the fulfilment of it, thus placing it on a level with the 
obligation of redeeming captives and taking care of the 
poor. 

The Chinese, at the present day, attend to nothing so 
carefully as to the tombs of their ancestors. It is almost 
the only thing that approaches to a religious sense among 
them. And the Bedouin Arabs, amidst all their wan- 
derings, still hold clierished and sacred their peculiar 
burial-places in the desert, and deem it a great misfor- 
tune not to be bm^ied there. Now it is obvious, from 
the very university of these practices, among all people 
in all ages and of all climes, that they have their orioin 
in the very soul of man ; that they spring out of the 
natural fountains of sentiment in human bosoms, and 
that, therefore, if they be proofs of a weakness of mind, 
as some affect to say, it is a weakness that was benevo- 
lently imparted by him who created us. 



,-SS2 MOUNT AUBURN. 



LINES 

AYrITTEX in WlLFORD CnUKCIlTAED ON ReCOVEEY FEOM SlCKNESS. 

By Henkt Kieke White. 

Here would I wisli-to sleep. — This is the spot 

Which I have long marked cut to lay my bones in ; 

Tired out and wearied "vvith the riotous world, 

Beneath this yew I would be sepulchred. 

It is a lovely spot ! The sultry sun, 

From his meridian height, endeavors vainly 

To pierce the shadowy foliage, while the zephyr 

Comes wafting gently o'er the rippling Trent, 

And plays about my cheek. Itis a nook 

Most pleasant. Such a one, perchance, did Gray 

Frequent, as with a vagrant muse he wantoned. 

Come, I will sit me down and meditate. 

For I am wearied with my summei''s walk ; 

And here I may repose in silent ease ; 

And thus, perchance, when life's sad journey's o'er, 

My harassed soul in this same spot, may find 

The haven of its rest — beneath this sod. 

Perchance may slumber sweetly, sound as death. 

I would not have my corpse cemented down 
With brick and stone, defrauding the poor worm 
Of its predestined dues ; no, I woiilAplie 
Beneath a little hillock, grass-o'ergrown. 
Swathed down Avith osiers, just as sleep the cotters. 
Yet may not undistinguished be my grave ; 
But there, at eve, may some congenial soul 
Duly resort, and shed a pious tear. 
The good man's benison — no more I ask. 
And Oh ! (if heavenly beings may look down 



LINES. 

From where, with cherubim, inspired they sit, 
Upon this little dim-discovered spot 
The earth,) then will I cast a glance below 
On him who thus my ashes shall embalm ; 
And I will weep too, and will bless the wanderer, 
Wishing he may not long be doomed to pine 
In this low-thoughted world of darkling woe, — 
But that, ere long, he reach his Idndred skies. 

Yet 'twas a silly thought, as if the body. 
Mouldering beneath the surface of the earth, 
Could taste the sweets of summer scenery, 
And feel the freshness of the balmy breeze ! 
Yet Nature speaks within the human bosom. 
And, spite of reason, bids it look beyond 
His narrow verge of being, and provide 
A decent residence for its clayey shell. 
Endeared to it by time. And who would lay 
His body in the city burial place. 
To be thrown up again by some rude sexton, 
And yield its narrow house another tenant. 
Exposed to insult lewd, and wantonness ? 
No ! I will lay me in the village ground ; 
There are the dead respected. The poor hind, 
Unlettered as he is, would scorn to invade 
The silent resting-place of death. I've seen 
The laborer returning from his toil. 
Here stay his ^eps, and call his children round, 
And slowly spell the rudely sculptured rhymes, 
And in his rustic manner moralize. 
I've marked with what a silent awe he spake, 
With head uncovered, his respectful manner, 
And all the honors which he paid the grave. 
And thought on cities, where even cemeteries. 



833 



834 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



Bestrewed with all the emblems of mortality, 

Are not protected from the drunken insolence 

Of wassailers profane and wanton havoc. 

Grant Heaven, that here my pilgrimage may close ! 

Yet, if this be denied, where'er my bones 

May lie, — or in the city's croAvded bounds. 

Or scattered wide o'er the huge sweep of waters, 

Or left a prey, on some deserted shore. 

To the rapacious cormorant, — yet still, 

(For why should sober reason cast away 

A thought that soothes the soul ?) yet still my spirit 

Shall wing its way to these my native regions, 

And hover o'er this spot. Oh then I'll think 

Of times when I was seated 'neath this yew, 

In solemn rumination ; and will smile 

With joy that I have got my long'd release. 



MODES OF BURIAL. 

By John Brazee, D. D. 

Such being the uses of appropriate rites and modes of 
burial, and such being the attention which the subject 
has at all times excited ; it may not be uninteresting or 
useless, to advert to the more prevailing methods, in 
which this natural Avant of human bosoms has been met 
and answered, in different ages and climes. 

The modes of burial may be reduced to two, though 
there are other and very curious methods of disposing of 
the remains of the dead, that may demand a passing 
notice. These are Inhumation, or the placing these re- 
mains in the earth ; and Cremation, or the reducing of 
them to ashes. 



MODES OF BURIAL. 



335 



Inhumation^ or interment in the earth, appears to have 
been the earliest, as it is certainly the most natural and 
appropriate method of burial. It probably dates back to 
the time when it was said to Adam, " dust thou art, and 
unto dust thou shalt return," though the first record that 
exists of the practice, is that of Sarah, the wife of Abra- 
ham, already referred to. Cicero says it prevailed in 
Athens from the time of Cecrops. Various structures 
have been employed, in reference to this mode pf burial. 
Entombment is one of these. The most ancient tombs 
are supposed to be those tumuli, or immense mounds of 
earth, which are no-sv found in almost all parts of the 
w^orld. Dr. Clarke states that he "• has seen those se- 
pulchral heaps in Europe, in Asia, from the Icy Sea to 
Mount Caucasus, over all the south of Russia, Kuban 
Tartary, Asia Minor, Syria, Palestine, Egypt, and part 
of Africa." It is w^ell known, too, that they exist in both 
North and South America. Unlike other receptacles of 
mortal remains, they are not diminished and destroyed 
by a silent, but inevitable progress of decay, but are con- 
tinually renewed and increased b}^ a superstitious but not 
unpleasing practice that prevails, of obliging every passer- 
by to cast a stone upon them. It is. inferred that they 
are more ancient than the pyramids, both on account of 
the greater simplicity of their structure, and from their 
more ancient appearance, when both are subjected to the 
same atmospheric influences. 

The Pyramids and Lahyrintlis of Egypt, which are 
among the most extraordinary works of that land of 
wonders, may be here referred to. Their builders, the 
time of their erection, and their precise use, are equally 
unknown, and no light has as yet been cast upon this 
subject by hieroglyphical researches. It is supposed, 
however, that they have been erected at a later period 



836 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



than nine liunclred years before the Christian era, since 
Homer, who lived at that time, spoke of the hundred 
gates of Thebes, but makes no aHusion to them. And 
there seems little reason to doubt, that their main design 
was to cover the remains of those who projected and 
built them, or those of the priests. 

Catacombs have also been extensively employed for 
purposes of sepulture. These are caverns, grottoes or 
caves, which are found already existing in the bosom of 
the earth, or have been originally excavated for the pro- 
curing of building materials, or else have been made 
expressly for tombs. They exist in Syria, Persia, and 
among the most ancient provinces of the East. There 
are extensive ones in the Tufa Mountains of Capo di 
Monte, near Naples, which were originally quarries, as 
were those in Paris. But the most remarkable are those 
in Egypt. Five series of these have been described, — 
those of Alexandria, Saccara, Silcillis, Gourna, and the 
tombs of the kings of Thebes. They are placed out of 
the reach of the overflow of the Nile, excluded as much 
as possible from the air, and removed away from the 
usual haunts of men. They are sometimes hewn out of 
solid rock, and sometimes surmounted by pyramids. 
They extend in some instances, as for example, in the 
vicinity of Alexandria and Thebes, several miles. The 
learned in such matters differ, whether these or the pyra- 
mids are the more ancient. Almost every city had its 
Necropolis, or city of the dead, of this description. 

Embalming', though not strictly a method of sepulture, 
is too intimately connected with the subject to be wholly 
passed by. This, as is well known, is a process of pre- 
serving the bodies of the dead from decay by means of 
various medicaments. The ancient Egyptians surpassed 
all other people in the practice of this art, though it was 



MODES OF BURIAL. 337 

not unknown to the Hebrews, Greeks, Romans, Scytliians, 
Persians, Arabs, Ethiopians, and ancient Peruvians. It 
is, however, an art entirely unknown in Egypt, at tlie 
present day, and all our knowledge of it is to be drawn 
from ancient writers. Herodotus is the oldest and best 
authority ; and those who desire details on this subject, 
may consult the second book of his history, of the " Eu- 
terpe." Diodorus Siculus, who lived four centuries and 
a half later, relates many additional particulars. The 
Guanches, or inhabitants of the Fortunate, or Canary 
Isles, embalmed their dead in a manner resembling that 
of the ancient Egyptians. This practice has been some- 
times resorted to in England, and with what success may 
be seen in Sir Henry Halford's account of the "Disinter- 
ment of several kings." 

In certain parts of Peru, bodies are naturally embalmed 
and preserved for ages, by the saline nature of the earth, 
and by the diyness of the atmosphere, circumstances we 
may observe, in passing, which are much more effica- 
cious in preserving bodies from decay, than any antiseptic 
applications that can be made. 

Desiccation^ or a process of drying, is another method 
of preserving corpses, intimately connected with the pre- 
ceding. The most remarkable example of this is near 
Palermo, where is situated the Cemetery, or rather the 
Cadavery, of the convent of the Capuchins. It is a sub- 
terraneous hall, where all the bodies of the fraternity, 
together with those of several persons of distinction from 
the city, are found in an upright posture, and habited in 
their accustomed dress. Some have remained undecayed 
for two centuries and a half. The following account of 
this spectacle, we subjoin for the considei'ation of those 
who prefer to make provision, either by tombs, or vaults 
of any kind, for the remains of the dead, where they may 
29 



338 MOUNT AUBUBN. 

be visible or accessible, only remarking, that, in our 
opinion, it varies from those in ordinary use, only in de- 
gree of hideousness. Smith says, that upon descending 
into this Cadavery, " it is difficult to express the disgust 
arising from seeing the human form so degradingly carica- 
tured, in the ridiculous assemblage of distorted mummies, 
that are here hung by the neck in hundreds, with as- 
pects, features, and proportions, so strangely altered by 
the operation of drying, as hardly to bear a resemblance 
to human beings. From their curious attitudes, they are 
rather calculated to excite derision, than the awful emo- 
tions arising from the sight of two thousand decayed 
mortals." Well might Sonnini say, " that a preservation 
like this is horrid." 

Cremation, or the burning of the bodies of the dead, 
and Urn-Burial, or the collecting of the ashes in funeral 
vases, was, as we have intimated, the other practice that 
-very generally prevailed in antiquity. This dates back 
to the early times of Greece, as all the readers of Homer 
well know, and w^as especially used by the Athenians. 
It was copied, as were many other practices relating to 
burial, by the Romans ; and prevailed also among the 
northern tribes of Europe, as appears from the accounts 
ofCjEsar and Tacitus. Pliny denies the early prevalence 
of Cremation. But in this he stands in opposition to 
Plato, Cicero, Virgil and Ovid, all of whom recognize it 
as a very ancient rite. What determined this question 
in reference to the Romans is the law of the Twelve 
Tables, which prohibited both the burying and the burn- 
ing of dead bodies within the limits of the city. It was, 
however, not used by the Egyptians and Persians, on 
account of objections derived from their peculiar mythol- 
ogy, the former regarding fire as a raging monster which 
devoured everything with which it came into contact, 



MODES OF BURIAL. 339 

and diod itself with what it last devoured ; and the latter 
considering fire as a god, who would he contaminated hy 
the touch of a dead body. It is not know^n certainly 
when Cremation fell into disuse. It was not practised in 
the time of Thcodosius the younger, since Marohius, who 
lived in his time, expressly says it was not. It was sup- 
posed to have fallen into desuetude, through the influ- 
ence of the Christian Fathers, and to have ceased with 
the Antonini. " Perhaps," says Sir Thomas Brown, 
" Christianity ftdly established, gave the final extinction 
to these sepulchral bonfires." The practice is supposed 
to have had its origin in different causes. Some thought 
that the action of fire was necessary to purify the soul 
from its earthliness, so that it might return to its primal 
source. Others resorted to it, for the purpose of securing 
the remains of the dead from insult and outrage. " To 
be gnaw^ed out of our graves," says the author just 
quoted, " to have our skulls made into drinking bowls, 
and our bones turned into pipes, to delight and sport our 
enemies, are magical abominations escaped in burning 
burials." Again, " he that hath the ashes of a friend, 
hath an everlasting treasure ; wdien fire taketh leave, 
corruption slowdy enters." There were some who were 
excluded from this rite. Thus the bodies of infants, as 
Pliny tells us, before the appearance of their first tooth, 
must be buried, not burned. The place was called Sug"- 
grundarium, in contradistinction to Bustuni, or funeral 
pile, and to jSepidcJirum, or grave ; there being no bones 
of consistency to be burned, and no perceptible bulk to 
be inhumed. Those stricken with lightning were in like 
manner prohibited from Cremation, but were buried if 
possible, where they fell. 

We have stated that Inhumation, or burying the bodies 
of the dead in the earth, and Cremation, or burning those 



840 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



bodie-, were the jirincipal methods of disposmg of them 
in ancient times. There have prevailed, however, other 
practices, to whicli in tlie hope of giving some complete- 
ness to this account of modes of burial, we shall briefly 
refer. The people who lived near the Riphean moun- 
tains, according to Pliny, buried the remains of their 
dead in water. The Ichtliyophagi^ or fish-eating people 
about Egypt, did the same. " And water certainly," 
according to Sir Thomas Brown, "has proved the 
smartest grave, which in forty days swallowed almost 
all mankind." Some tribes of people heap up stones on 
the corpses of the dead. The Persian Magi exposed them 
to dogs and wild beasts. The Ballarians crowded them 
into urns, without burying, and heaped wood upon them. 
The Scythians affixed them to trunks of trees, and kept 
them in snow and ice. Some of the Ethiopians, remov- 
ing the fleshy integuments of the dead bodies, supplied 
their place with plaster, and laid on this a kind of fresco, 
which was made to Imitate the natural body. This being 
kept in a glazed coffin, during the space of a year, was 
afterwards buried without the environs of the city. 

The Colchians and Tartars exposed their dead to the 
air, tying the bodies to branches of trees, where they re- 
mained till they were di'ied, and then buried them. The 
Persians, Syrians, and ancient Arabians preserved the 
remains of the dead by a covering of asphaltum, wax and 
honey. According to Statins and others, the body of 
Alexander the Great was preserved in this way ; and it 
is said by Strabo to be a custom common among the Baby- 
lonians. Certain people of Guinea disinter their dead, 
when they are supposed to have become skeletons, and 
then decorate these ghastly remains with feathers and 
ornaments, and hang them up in their houses. The 
Chinese often preserve the bodies of parents, carefully 



MODES OF BURIAL. 



]41 



guarded from the air, for three or four years in their 
houses, or in small habitations, built for the purpose out- 
side of the city, where one of the family, commonly the 
eldest son, presents offerings of rice, wine and tea, and 
takes especial care, that the sticks of incense are kept 
constantly burning. The Ethiopians, according to Hero- 
dotus, dry the bones of their dead, and then, to look as 
much like life as possible, by means of plaster and paint, 
enclose them Avithin columns of glass or amber, or in a 
species of transparent fossil salt. But we need not dwell 
longer on these vai'ious methods of disposing of the relics 
of the dead. Among semi-barbarous people, they vary 
with almost every tribe ; while nations of a higher cul- 
ture have, almost without exception, confined themselves 
to Inhumation, or Interment,, in some of its various forms, 
or to Cremation and Urn-Burial. 

In connection with these modes of burial we refer, as 
briefly as possible, to some of the more remarkable rites 
and forms, in which these last offices have been performed. 
The earliest as well as fullest account, we have of these, 
is that of Homer. But they did not differ materially 
from that observed by the Romans, who, indeed, copied 
them from the foi'mer. We will omit them at present, 
to speak of the funeral rites of the Egyptians. These 
were very remarkable, and in some respects different 
from all others. Among them the following may be 
briefly referred to. When any one died, the females of 
the family, covering their heads and fices with mud, and 
leaving the body in the house, ran through the streets, 
striking themselves and uttering loud lamentations. 
Hired mourners were employed to increase these mani- 
festations of grief. The body was then conveyed to the 
embalmers. The mourning family, during seventv-two 
days, continued their lamentations at home, sino-ino- the 
29* 



842 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



funeral dirge, abstaining from all amusements, suffering 
their hair and beard to grow, neglecting their personal 
comfort and appearance, in token of their grief. The 
body, having been embalmed, was restored to the family, 
either already placed in the mummy case, or merely 
wrapped in bandages. It was then " carried forth " and 
deposited in the hearse, and drawn upon a sledge to the 
sacred lake of the Nome, or department to which it be- 
longed. Before the body could be finally buried, the 
deceased must be adiudoed worthy of the last funeral 
rites by a tribunal, consisting of forty-two judges ap- 
pointed for the pui'pose, who were placed in a semicircle, 
near the bank of the sacred lake, and who examined the 
details of his life and character. If, after due hearing, 
the judges condemned him, his body was not permitted 
to cross the sacred lake, and his memory was indelibly 
disgraced. If, on the other hand, no chai'ges were 
brought against him, or being brought, were proved to 
be groundless, his relatives took off the badges of mourn- 
ing, and pronounced an eulogium on his virtues, but 
without speaking of his birth or rank, as was done in 
Greece, since the Egyptians thought that all their coun- 
trymen were equally noble. No one was exempted by 
his rank from this ordeal. Kings, as well as subjects, the 
high and the low, those whom while living none dared 
to approach, and the liumblest individual were, after 
death, liable to be subjected to the most rigorous exami- 
nation. The body was then taken across the lake, carried 
to the catacombs, which were previously prepared, and 
placed in its final resting-place. 

Other circumstances are added to this account by 
other writers. It is said there was a common burial 
place called Acherusia ; that there was a pit called 
Tartar, into which the bodies of the wicked were 



OUR LIFE. 343 

thrown ; that a small sum was paid to the ferr^-men 
who carried the body across the lake in his boat ; and 
tliat the cemetery on the further side, to which the 
remains of the good were consigned, was called Elisont, 
a word meaning a place of rest. The whole ceremony 
of interment is supposed to have consisted in simply de- 
positing the prepared mummy in the appointed place, 
with the throwing upon it three handfuls of sand, and 
the utterance of three loud adieus. It is very obvious 
tliat in these circumstances, as well as in the whole 
arrangement of the Grecian Pantheon, which was prob- 
ably derived from the Egjq^tians, Ave find the elements 
of the classical myths concerning Acheron, Tartarus, 
Charon, with his boat and ferriage money, and the fields 
of Elysium. 



OUR LIFE, 



By Miss L. L. A. Vert. 

Why should we live for time 
When Life's horizon stretches far away, 
And tokens on Thought's Sea from day to day 

Float from a kindlier clime ? 

There bright flowers float along, 
Hope's amaranthine blooms from endless 3'ears ; 
And strains that move to extasy or tears 

From unknown warblers' song. 

And still Thought's waves dash on. 
Murmuring ever of the home they left, 
And o-rievincr like a Aveary child bereft 

Longing for joys to come. 



S44 MOUKT AUBUKN. 

Death spreads its shadows dark, 
But cannot quite shut out th' Eternal Day I 
Nor Crime extinguish, on its heavenly way, 

The spirit's rising spark ! 

Though wretched and defiled 
The Father still his lineaments shall trace. 
Shall wash away the stains that hide the face 

That once in beauty smiled ; 
And welcome to his own brinht dwelling place 

His sin-repentant Child. 



ROMAN OBSEQUIES. 

By John Brazek, D. D. 



The funeral rites of the Greeks and Romans were 
accurately and elaborately performed, in consequence of 
their prevalent belief that the manes or spirits of the 
dead could find no rest or peace while their bodies re- 
mahied unburied. This llict is often referred to by their 
poets. Our remarks on this part of the subject will be 
confined to the Roman obsequies alone, both because the 
accounts relating to these are copious and accessible, and 
because they embrace, substantially, the ceremonies com- 
mon to both nations. 

Allusions to these rites are scattered over the whole 
range of Roman literature. Indeed the peculiar force of 
many passages, both in prose and poetry, is obscured or 
lost, unless these funeral rites be well understood. But 
they are nowhere, of set purpose, described by any classi- 
cal author. The funeral rites of the Romans were ar- 



ROMAN OI5SEQUIES. 345 

ranged according to the age, wealth and dignity of those 
Avho were the subjects of them ; particular regard being 
had to their last expressed wishes. They were of two 
kinds — Public^ to which the people were summoned by 
the voice of the public crier ; or Private^ plebeian, com- 
mon, which were not publicly announced, and were 
attended with no pomp, parade, or show of any kind. 
The former of these will only be referred to here. It 
consisted, properly, of four distinct parts : first, the rites 
before the funeral ; second, the Elatio, or carrying forth 
the body to the place where it was to be burned or buried, 
or both ; third, the jSepultura, or burial ; and fourth, the 
subsequent ceremonies. 

The first and second of these we shall refer to in the 
briefest possible way, both because they do not strictly 
belong to the line of remark we are now pursuing, and 
because the facts are easily accessible. In regard to the 
third and fourth parts of a Roman funeral, we shall con- 
fine ourselves principally to those circumstances which 
bear especially on our present inquiry, and to those 
which, on any account, may appear to possess a peculiar 
interest. 

A short summary of the rites before the funeral, is as 
follows. The last breath of the dj- ing was inhaled by the 
nearest relatives, under the impression that the spirit or 
soul of the departing person thus and then left the body. 
Rings were taken from their fingers, their eyes and 
mouths closed, and the names of the deceased loudly and 
repeatedly called. The very singular custom prevailed 
of cutting off one or more of the fingers of the deceased. 
This was done, either for the purpose of ascertaining 
whether death was real, or only apparent ; or, which is 
the more probable supposition, for the purpose of securing 
some parts of the dead body, for the renewal of the fu- 



346 MOUNT AUBUI3X. 

neral ceremonies, or parentation, as it was called in honor 
of the dead after buri;d. The body was then bathed, 
and anointed with various antiseptic and fragrant drugs ; 
arrayed in the best robes which belonged to the deceased ; 
adorned with crowns or public badges of distinction which 
they had v.'orn, and then brought from the inmost apart- 
ments, and placed on a couch in the threshold of the 
house, with the feet towards the door. The house whei'e 
the body was thus situated, was marked as in mourning, 
by placing on the door branches of the pine or cypress.' 
This was especially intended as a signal to prevent the 
approach of those engaged in offering the public sacrifices, 
since it was supposed to be polluting to them to touch, or 
even to look upon, a corpse. 

After thes.e preparatory rites, next followed in order, 
the JElatio, or bearing forth of the corpse. Servius says 
this took place seven days after death. It seems prob- 
able, however, that there Avas no set time observed ; but 
rather such a period as was rendered necessary for the 
elaborate preparations required, according to the peculiar 
circumstances of the case. The Elatio was prepared in 
the early times of the republic, in the night-time ; but 
afterwards this practice was confined to private funerals, 
or those of a humble character, and the earlier hours of 
the day were preferred for this service in those which 
were public. Children, among the Athenians, were 
carried to the place of burial at "dawn, since, as was 
thought, the sun should not be a spectator of such an 
untimely calamity. - From the ancient custom, however, 
of funeral processions by night, the practice of bearing 
tapers and torches, which was always observed by day, 
in similar ceremonies, w^as borrowed. Hence the bearers 
were called, at first, Vesperones, and after, Vespillones. 
The bier was preceded by various persons ; by musicians 



ROMAN OBSEQUIES. 347 

consisting of two kinds, the trumpeters and the flute 
players ; by Praefica, or females hired to sing, with loud 
and stridulous voices, the Naenia, which were rude and 
doleful, and sometimes idle and silly songs ; by players and 
dancers ; by bviffbons, one of whom imitated the appear- 
ance and bearing of the deceased ; and by freedmen, who 
sometimes bore on small couches, or on spears, the 
images, busts and insignia of the deceased or of his family. 
The body was carried forth by the nearest relations, or 
sometimes, by manumitted slaves, or by hired persons 
who bore different designations. 

The bier Avas carried covered or uncovered. In the 
latter case, the body was richly clad and ornamented, 
and with the face painted. It was carried, in opposition 
to the Egyptian practice, with the feet forward, as indi- 
cating a final departure from the world. Relations, friends 
and all who -wished to shoAv affection and respect for the 
mem.ory of the person wdio was the subject of the pageant, 
follow^ed the bier, with tears, with hair cut off or dishev- 
elled, with garments changed or torn, with all ornaments 
laid aside, with beating of the breast, complaints and re- 
proaches of the gods, and with all external sign of grief. 
The surviving sons, who followed, were veiletl, wdiile the 
daughters were unveiled ; it being regarded, as is sup- 
posed, that a reversal of an ordinary custom is appropriate 
to mourning. The procession passed through the Forum, 
and the bier was placed before the Rostra, where a fu- 
neral oration was pronounced. It was then led to an 
appointed place, without the citij, and the body was tlicre 
burned or buried. 

The sepulture, or burial, next followed. If the re- 
mains were to be burned and not buried, they were taken 
to a place called Ustrina ; but if they w^ere to be both 
burned and buried, the place was called Biistmn. They 



348 MOUNT AUBURN. 

were laid upon a fiineral pyre, or pile, which was simply 
a heap of wood prepared for the purpose. This was com- 
posed of those kinds of trees which are most easily 
ignited ; and they Avere in early times, unhewn and 
rough, according to a law of the Twelve Tables. The 
cypress, the myrtle, the cedar and the laurel were also 
added, on account of their fragrant odor. The pyre was 
built in the form of an altar, and was raised higher or 
lower, according to the dignity of the deceased, a fact 
frequently noted in the classical allusions to them. It 
could not be placed, according to a prohibition of the 
Twelve Tables, within sixty feet of any private dwelling ; 
and by a subsequent law, enacted in the time of Augus- 
tus, it was to be removed at least two miles from the city. 

On a pile like this, the dead body, together with the 
bier on which it had been carried — for it was customary 
to burn both together — was placed ; and after kisses, 
and other tokens of endearment ; and after the eyes of 
the corpse, which had been closed at death, ivere re- 
opened ; the fire was applied by the nearest relations, 
with eyes and head averted, as indicative that necessity 
and not choice, imposed the task ; and the winds were 
implored to excite and cherish the fire, that its office 
might be quickly .done. After the fire was lighted, a 
solemn march, thrice repeated was, in some cases, made 
round the pile. This was in an inverted order, that is, 
from right to left, which in all cases was a token of grief, 
as that from left to right denoted joy and gratulation. 
This was done with all the insignia of office and distinc- 
tion inverted, with weapons thrown aside, and sometimes 
with the music of wind instruments, in the case of illus- 
trious persons. 

But while the body was thus consumed, its remains 
were not buried alone. It was a sinoular and most r«- 



ROMAN 0B3EQUIES. 349 

volting superstition of classical antiquity, that tlie souls 
of the departed Avere thirsty for blood, without tasting 
which, it was supposed, that they could not speak, or know 
the living, though they Avere cognizant of events past and 
to come. The spirits of Penelope's suitors, for example, 
are said, while following the guidance of Mercury, to chirp 
like birds. In consequence of this superstitious notion, 
various animals, and particularly those which were sup- 
posed to be most dear to the deceased when living, were 
sacrificed on the same funeral pile with them. Some- 
times even human beings, such as captives, servants, and 
women, were sacrificed on the pile. Gifts also of gar- 
ments, perfumes, gems, and valuable pledges of aflPection, 
were often added ; and in such profusion was this done, 
at some periods, that they were restricted by a sumptuary 
law of the Twelve Tables. 

After the body had been sufiiciently consumed, which 
was indicated by the gradual settling of the white ashes 
upon the live coals, the fire was extinguished, and Avine 
Avas sprinkled on the embers. Next folloAved the collect- 
ing of the remaining bones. This practice is playfully 
alluded to by the festive poets of antiquity, intimating 
that the wine, that was thus destined to quench their 
burnino; bones after death, might be more seasonablA' 
applied in moistening their living clay. This office fell to 
the nearest friends ; their hands were carefully purified .; 
their garments Avere black, unloosed or floAving ; and 
their feet naked, in token of rcA^erence. The remains 
thus collected Avere bathed Avitli Avine, milk, odors, and 
tears ; and being Avrapped in a cloak of fine linen, were 
exposed in some cases to the Avind to be dried, in others 
placed in the bosom of the mother, or some near female 
friend. 

The remains thus collected Avere placed in urns 
30 



3.30 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



These wore made of gold, silver, brass, marble or cla}'. 
Of this last kind were those " sad, sepulchral pitchers, 
which have no joyful voices," that were dug np in Nor- 
folk, England, in 1658, and to which we owe the remark- 
able essay, entitled " Hydriotaphia." In those urns were 
frequently placed phials filled with tears, since called 
Lachrymatories. They were finally placed in the earth, 
and structures of various kinds, were placed over or be- 
neath them. This office being performed, the Pra^fica 
exclaimed Ilicet, {ire licet), which indicated the close 
of the cei'emony. Those who remained at the funeral 
pile were thrice purified with water, sprinkled by a 
branch of olive or laurel, from the polkition which tlic 
touch of a corpse was supposed to occasion. They then 
shouted, in regular strains, their adieus — Salve et Vale 
— and particularly the last, three times ; and then fol- 
lowed the touching words, — " Mjs te orclitie, quo natura 
2)ermiserit, cuncti segucmur ; " — We must all follow thee, 
according as the course of nature will permit us. The 
prayers were then offered — " Sit tili terra levis " — that 
the earth might be light upon their remains. This pait 
of the service was then concluded by treading out the 
remaining fire, their own bodies being previously sprin- 
kled with water. They then retiu-ned home, and purified 
the house Avhore the dead had been, by burning sulpliur 
• and laurel, and by sweeping it with a certain kind of 
' broom. 

But the attention which the Romans bestowed on the 
remains of the dead, did not terminate even with these 
operose rites. They prepared their sepulchres with 
great care, and considered this a very important part of 
their obsecjuies. They were built by individuals for 
themselves and families, or this office was expressly en- 
joined upon their heirs, and the inscrijition sometimes re^ 



ROMAN OBSEQUIES. 351 

corded the names of tliose for wliom, and for wliom they 
"vvere not intended. Kirchman cites one, in which a cer- 
tain individual is forbid even to approacli tlie spot where 
it was placed. These sepulchres were of various kinds. 
In tlie early period of Rome, they were nothing more 
than a ditch or furrow, rudely dug in the ground. But 
subsequently they were more elaborately constructed, 
and in some instances at a great expense. Some were 
made to resemble small dwellings or temples, and Avere 
overlaid by, or composed of flint, marble, iron, stone or 
shells, and were adorned by images, effigies, and repre- 
sentations of various kinds, such as fights, huntings, 
sacrifices, sporting scenes, satyrs, cupids, marine gods 
with tails of fishes and carrying nymphs, the rape of 
Proserpine, the four winds and the labors of Hercules. 
It was an ancient and wide-spread, as well as beautiful 
custom, to place in a common resting-place the remains 
of husbands and wives, lovers, twins, friends, and those 
who had lived together and loved each other in life. This 
practice Avas extended to urn-burials. " All urns con- 
tained not single ashes ; without confused burnings, they 
affectionately compounded their bones ; passionately en- 
deavoring to continue their living unions. And when 
distance or death denied such conjunctions, unsatisfied 
affections conceived some satisfaction to be neighbors in 
the grave, to lie urn by urn, and touch but in their 
names."' 

The inscriptions on tliese monuments were in general 
very simple, and confined to literal facts, though some- 
times they contained an eulogium on the deceased. They 
were begun ordinarily with the formal D. M. or D. M. S. 
(^Dls Manibus Sacrmn). This was followed by the 
name of the defunct, that of his parents, country, family, 
together frequently, with an account of the exact num- 



352 ___ MOUNT AUBURN. 

ber of days and hours lie had lived, the cause of his death, 
and the amount of property he left to his heirs. If the 
remains were those of a female, who had been married 
only once^ the fact was considered so creditable as to be 
worthy of a distinct mention. And if the marriage had 
been happy, this was deemed too great a boon not to be 
inscribed on the monument. These sepulchres were held 
sacred and inviolable. Their sacredness was guarded by 
severe enactments, and was considered as violated, by the 
demolition or injury of the monument ; by improper 
occupancy ; by remoA^al of the remains ; by mutilation or 
even touching of them ; and by taking away anything 
belonging to them. 

Cenotaphs, or empty monuments, as already intimated, 
were built in memory of those whose bodies were depos- 
ited in another place, or which, from any cause, remained 
unburied. They had their origin in a superstition of the 
Greeks, already mentioned, and which was afterwards 
religiously adopted by the Romans, that the ghosts of 
tlie departed would remain homeless and without a rest- 
ing place, until a sepulchre, to which they were solemnly 
invoked, was built for them. The story of Palinurus, in 
the sixth book of the ^iieid, may be taken as an expo- 
nent of the common faith and feeling on this subject. 
We only add to this sketch of Roman obsequies, that 
they did not end with the final depositing of the remains 
in the tomb or grave. Certain days were prescribed 
when funeral rites were observed in memory of the dead. 
The month of February, and in an especial manner the 
nineteenth day thereof, were particularly set aside for 
those of a public nature. It is considered by Kirchman 
that the part of the corpse which was separated before 
burial, as above mentioned, was thus used. Sacrifices, 
or oblations, Avere offered to the infernal deities, or to the 



ROMAN OBSEQUIES. 353 

f^liosts of the departed. These consisted of water, wine, 
milk, blood, ointments, and perfumes. Feasts and games 
Avere in like manner observed. They decked also the 
sepulchres of friends with fillets, floral crowns of promis- 
cuous floAvers, and some, in an especial manrer, which 
were appropriated to the purpose. Those of purple hne, 
lilies and especially roses were preferred. The Greeks, 
in similar services, used the amaranth, white potlios, 
parsley, and myrtle. 

The time and observances of mourning for the depart- 
ed were determined with much accuracy, though Senecr, 
and writers of the same school, affect to consider such 
practices as womanish. " A year," he says, " was the 
prescribed term of mourning for women ; not that they 
were obliged to mourn so long, but were not permitted 
to mourn longer. There is no legitimate period for a 
man to mourn for the dead, because there is no time in 
which it is becomino; to do so." But the memorable 
words of Antoninus Pius are an answer to all such 
stoicisms. '' Permit a friend in grief to be a man ; for it 
is no part of true philosophy to destroy the reign of the 
affections. " The time, within the space of a year, of 
legitimate mourning, had reference to the age and rela- 
tionship of the departed. It was not permitted in the 
death of' children under three years of age. From that 
period to the age of ten, it was laAvful to mourn pub- 
licly, in the proportion of one month for every year of 
their life, in no case exceeding ten. These laws had 
reference to women particularly ; and it was held disre- 
putable for them to be married in less time than a year 
after the death of a husband. As signs of grief, women 
cut off their hair, while men permitted theirs to grow ; 
ashes were scattered upon the head ; clothes of a black 
color worn ; all ornaments were laid aside ; an abstinence 



554 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



from public amusements was observed ; fire and lights in 
the house were avoided as far as possible ; doors were 
kept closed ; and cypress branches were placed upon the 
houses of nobles, and pine upon those of the plebeians. 

The places of sepulture, of every kind, whether of 
graves, tumuli, monuments, or urns, among the Romans, 
were, from their earliest history, without the city. Numa, 
according to Livy, was buried on Janiculum ; and this 
was added to the city by Ancus Martins. The remains 
of Servius Tullius were also carried outside of the city. 
This practice was afterwards prescribed by a law of the 
Twelve Tables. The same rule was observed by the 
Athenians, Jews, and by all, or nearly all, the dwellers 
on the borders of the Mediterranean Sea. 



THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD. 

By Mrs. IIemans. 

Forget them not ! though now their name 

Be but a mournful sound, 
Though by the hearth its utterance claim 

A stillness round. 

Though for their sake this earth no more 

As it hath been, may be, 
And shadows, never marked before. 

Brood o'er each tree. 

And though their image dim the sky. 

Yet, yet forget them not ; 
Nor when their love and life went by, 

Forsake the spot I ^ 



5Lf.' 



THE MEMOllY OF THE DEAD. OOO 

They have a breathing influence there, 

A charm not elsewhere found ; 
Sad, — yet it sanctifies the air, 

The stream, the ground. 

Then, though the wind an ahered tone 

Through the young fohage bear, 
Though every flower of something gone, 

A tinge may wear. 

O fly it not ! — no fruitless grief, 

Thus in their presence felt, 
A record links to every leaf. 

There, where they dwelt. 

Still trace the path that knew their tread. 

Still tend their garden bower, 
Still commune with the holy dead, 

In each lone hour. 

The holy dead ! — Oh, blest we are, 

That we may call them so, 
And to their image look afar. 

Through all our woe ! 



Blest, that the things they loved on earth. 

As relics we may hold, 
That wake sweet thoughts of parted Avorth 

By springs untold ! 



Blest, that a deep and chastening power 
Thus o'er our souls is given, 

If but to bird, or song, or flower. 
Yet all for Heaven. 



^oO MOUNT AUBURN. 

EARLY CHRISTIAN OBSEUUIES. 

By John Brazeu, D. D. 

After tlic introduction of Cliristiiinity, the forms of 
burial were materially changed. Indeed the early- 
Fathers and Confessors of the Church seem to have 
thought that everything regarding these, as well as other 
ceremonies, was pro-Christian in the same degree that it 
was anti-Pagan. The attention, moreover, which was 
paid both to the dying and the dead, was not only marked 
by those natural expressions of tenderness, which are 
common to all nations, but by some peculiar tokens of 
that Christian love which is the " fulfillins; of the law," 
and of that hope wliich looks beyond the grave. The 
final wishes, counsels, exhortations, and prayers of tlio 
dying were religiously treasured up ; their requests con- 
cerning the disposal of their property were carefully 
observed ; they were attended by the different orders ot 
their clergy who administered every possible solace and 
support ; prayers were offered for them in the churches ; 
the sign of the cross was administered to them ; and 
friends and relatives o-athered round to jrive and receive 
the last expressions of endearment. 

It has already been mentioned, that the practice of 
cremation, or burning, died out nearly at the time of the 
two Antonines, and probably through the influence of the 
Christian Fathers. It is certain it was alwaj^s held in 
abhorrence by the early Christians, " Avho retained " as 
one of their apologists said, " the ancient custom of in- 
humation as more eligible and commodious." The prac- 
tice, however, of embalming was, in the first ages of the 
Church, by no means uncommon. This was probably 
suggested by the usage of the Jews, and particularly liy 



EARLY CHRISTIAN OBSEQUIES. 






■what is said in the gospels of the burial of Christ, since 
it was hence esteemed a mark of honor. There "vvas 
another obvious reason for it, and this was the fact, that 
they were often obhged to assemble for religious worship 
in their places of sepulture. It was observed also, in 
token of their faith in the future resurrection of tlie body, 
in its incorruptible state. They differed from the ancient 
heathens in respect to the time of burial, since they pre- 
ferred, in all cases, when it was practicable, to perform 
this service by day, and not, as the latter did, by niglit. 
The use, however, of lighted tapers, or torches, was con- 
tinued. The eucharist was frequently solemnized at their 
funerals. They observed the practice common to most 
nations, of closing the eyes of the dying, but did not open 
them again as the Romans did, since this, with them, was 
symbol of the peaceful slumber of the departed, until 
the last trump should wake them. They omitted the 
" conclamations " practiced by the Romans ; and instead 
of exposing the dead bodies at the porches of their houses, 
they placed them in the interior of their dwellings, or in 
the church. They appointed, in the true spirit of their 
faith, an order of men, who bore a semi-classical character, 
whose especial business it was to attend upon the sick poor, 
and give them a decent burial when dead. These were 
called " Parabolani," because they exposed their lives 
amidst contagious disease. In the time of Constantine, 
and through his influence, a class of persons was appointed 
called " CopiataB," who performed certain important 
offices. The office of sexton was held in high esteem. 
They substituted in the place of the doggrel Nasnia of 
the Roman Proeficfe, and of the pipers and trumpeters 
— anthems and sacred hymns, which were conceived in 
a tone of triumph, rather than of mourning. " What 
mean our hymns ? " says Chrysostom. " Do we not glorify 



358 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



God that liatli crowned the departed, and set him free 
from all fear ? " They used coffins, and in this respect 
observed the customs of the heathens, and departed from 
that of the Jews, who merely wrapped the body in 
graveclothes. They placed branches of laurel, ivy, and 
other evergreen plants, under the head of the corpse, 
when deposited in the sarcophagus, in token that death 
Avas not the end of life, and in contradistinction to the 
practice of the Greeks and Romans, who employed, for a 
similar purpose, the cypress, which, for the reason above 
stated, was an emblem of utter de^th. 

The practice of these nations, of crowning the corpse 
with garlands, they rejected as idolatrous. Tertullian, 
with no great wisdom, urges this objection ; and Minucius 
argued against it, with singular inaptncss, when he said 
that " if the dead be happy, he needs no flowers, and if 
he be miserable, they cannot please him." They rejected, 
altogether, the repetition of the mourning ceremonies on 
the third, seventh, and ninth day, according to the Ro- 
man practice, as well as all ofl'erings of milk, wine and 
flowers ; and, in fine, substituted for all other offerings 
and ceremonies, solemn religious rites, prayers and alms- 
deeds. " Before the establishment of convents " (says 
Weever), " men and women, though of equal degree and 
equality, were borne in a different manner to tlieir 
graves. Man was borne upon men's shoulders, to signify 
his dignity and superiority to his wife ; and woman at 
the arm's end, to signify, that being inferior to man in 
her life-time, she should not be equalled with him at her 
death ; which continued for a long time, until women, 
by renouncing the world, and living monastical, religious 
lives, got such an honorable esteem in the world, that 
they were thought no less worthy of honor in that kind, 
than men." Instead of the images, insignia and trophies, 



EAUJ.Y CIIKISTIAN OUSKQIIES. 359 

"vvliicli were bonie before tlic Licr in lieatlien funerals, 
tlie early Christians carried a cross, and sometimes 
brandies of palm. Church bells, Mhich are said to have 
been first introduced by Paulinus, bishop of Nola (from 
which Avas derived the modern Latin term (Nola) for 
bell) were first tolled at funerals in the eighth century. 
The corpses were placed in the grave, in the posture of 
repose, and always facing the east. Professing, as the 
early Fathers of the Church did, to regard death as a 
release from toil and suflPering, and as being, therefore, 
rather a joyful than a painful CA'ent, they discounte- 
nanced all excessive crief and mournino; for the dead. 
Augustine severely censured the custom, derived from 
the Romans, of wearing black. It was, however, al- 
ways employed as a sign of grief in the Greek Church, 
and its use afterwards became general. No particular 
period of mourning was prescinbed. It was left to cus- 
tom and to the feelings of survivoi's. Prayers for the 
dead were offered in the early ages of the Church ; and 
the practice of offering them lasted to the period of the 
Keformation. In other respects, the funeral rites were 
so similar to those which have since prevailed in Chris- 
tendom, that we need not dwell longer upon them. We 
will now advert to the places which have been used by 
Christians of earlier and later times for the burial of the 
dead. 

That the Christians in their very first origin, appro- 
priated peculiar spots to this purpose, is evident, from the 
fact, that such places, in times of persecution, were used 
" in silence and in fear," for their public religious ser- 
vices. These were called by the beautiful appellation, 
Dormitories^ or Places of Repose, because they regarded 
death as but a sleep, and the grave but as a quiet resting 
place, until the morning of the resurrection. They were 



360 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



called, also, Arc(S Seimltorum, and Crpptfs, and Arena- 
ria, because tliey were often subterranean crypts or 
vaults, dug out of the sand. These terms were used 
indiscriminately for burial places and places of public 
religious woi'ship. These caves were commonly exca- 
vated at the foot of a hill, the entrance was carefully 
concealed, and they were rendered accessible by means 
of a ladder. They were sometimes of vast extent ; and 
the depth so great, that two or three stories were placed 
one above another, and the whole aspect of them re- 
sembled a subterranean city. The early Christians Avere 
hence called by their contemporaries " a lighthating 
people." This habitual familiarity with the dead is 
supposed to be one cause of their well-known insensi- 
bility to death ; and taken in connection with their vivid 
and realizing faith, led them to court, rather than to 
shun, the thorny crown of martyrdom. But it is a 
mistake to infer from this, as some have done, that it was 
the custom of the early Christians to bury their dead in 
churches. On the contrary, this was expressly forbid- 
den ; and the truth is, that they did not hnry in places 
of worship, but worshipped in places of burial. 

When the Emperors and the laws became Christian, 
the prohibition against burying in cities remained in full 
force ; and when an attempt was made in Constantiiio])le 
to evade it by burying in churches, under pretence that 
this was not prohibited, it was reinforced by Theodosius, 
and all burying wuthin churches was also prohibited, under 
heavy penalties, both of ashes and relics kept in urns 
above ground, and of bodies laid in coffins. They were 
all required to be carried and deposited without the city, 
and the same reasons relating to the pubhc morals and 
the public health, assigned as stated already. In the 
fourth century, an especial honor was paid to the 



EARLY CHRISTIAN OBSEQUIES. 301 

memory of the Martyrs, by erecting clmrches over the 
places where their remains had been burned, or by car- 
rying these remains to the churches within the city. 
This seems to have first suggested the practice of burying 
in churches, but this distinction was for a long time con- 
fined to their relics. 

Constantine had desired to be buried near the Apostles, 
to whose honor he had erected a church. This was 
literally complied with. He was buried, not within the 
church, as is commonly asserted, but " near " it, that is, 
in the atrium, or porch of the church. " His son," says 
St. Chrysostom, " thought he did his father great honor 
to bury him in the Fishermen's Porch. And what 
porters are to Emperors in their own palaces, the same 
are the Emperors to the Fisherman in their graves." 
From the death of Constantine, in the beginning of the 
fourth century, to the commencement of the sixth, the 
privilege first awarded to his remains, that of being 
buried in the porch of the church, was in like manner, 
in especial instances, granted to kings and emperors. 
In the beginning of the sixth century, the people, gen- 
nerally, seem to have been admitted to the same privilege 
of being buried in the atrium, or churchyard, but were 
still excluded from the church itself. BetAveen the sixth 
and tenth centuries, this latter privilege was granted, by 
special laws, to certain kings, bishops, founders of church- 
es, and other eminent persons. 

From the last named period to the Decree of Pope 
Leo III., which is preserved by Gregory IX., in his 
Decretals, about the year A. D. 1280, the privilege, as 
it was considered, of being buried Avithin the church it- 
self, seems to have been left to be awarded, according to 
the discretion of the bishops and presbyters of the church. 
From the period of these Decretals, the ruin of the old 
31 



362 MOUNT AUBURN. 

laws, according to Bingham, is to be dated, since " tliev 
took away that little power that was left in the hands of 
bishops, to let people bury in the church or not, as they 
slionld judge proper in their discretion, and put the 
right and possession of burying places into the hands of 
private families. And those who had no such right, 
being led by their ambition, or superstition, could easily 
])urchas*e a right to be buried in the church, which was 
a thing which emperors themselves did not pretend to 
ask in former ages." In confirmation of the above, we 
quote a passage from Willis's Reports, to which we are 
indebted for a sensible Essay, pnblished in this country. 
" When Popery," says the learned Justice Abney, 
" grew to its height, and blind superstition had weakened 
and enervated the laity, and emboldened the clergy to 
pillage the laity, then, in the time of Pope Gregory the 
First, and soon after, other canons were made, that 
bishops, abbots, priests and faithful laymen, were per- 
mitted the honor of burial in the church itself, and 
all other parishioners in the churchyard, on a pretence, 
that their relations and friends, on a frequent view of 
their sepulchres, would be moved to pray for the good of 
tlieir departed souls. And as the parish priest was, by 
tlie common la-sv, sole judge of the merits of the dead, 
and the fitness of burial in the church, and alone could 
determine who Avas a faithful layman, they only were 
judged faithful, whose executor came up to the price of the 
priest ; and they only were allowed burial in he church, 
and the poorer sort were buried in the churchyard." 
Dr. Rees confirms the above, and adds, that to this su- 
perstition, and the profit arising from it, we may ascribe 
the origin of churchyards. 

We have thus endeavored to condense into as few 
words as possible, what we suppose to be the true his- 



EARLY CHRISTIAN OBSEQUIES. 363 

toiy of tills subject. It appears tliat from the foundation 
of the city of Rome, until the beginning of the fourth 
century of the Christian era, a period of more tiian a 
thousand years, no burials whatsoever were permitted 
within the city, and still less within any temple or church. 
That it w^as permitted to Coristantine, about the year of 
our Lord 300, to be buried " near " a church, that is, 
in the atrium or porch ; and that in the subsequent part 
of the fourth and during the course of the fifth century, 
the privilege, so called, was granted sparingly to some 
distinguished persons. That in the sixth century, the 
practice began of admitting the people to burial in the 
churchvard, but not in the church : and also of allowina: 
some particularly eminent or favored persons to be 
buried within the church. That from this period to the 
thirteenth century, the subject of similar admissions was 
left to the discretion of the clergy, who made of them a 
profitable but most disgraceful use. And that from the 
last mentioned period to the present, sepulture within 
churches and churchyards, which had been granted as 
above by the clci'gy to the laity, has been claimed as a 
right. 

But whatever may be the history of this practice, it is, 
to the last degree, exceptionable. We respond entirely 
to the sentiment of the learned Rivet, as quoted by 
Bingham, in connection with this subject. " This cus- 
tom," (says he,) " which covetousness and superstition 
first brought in, I wish it were abolished, wath other 
relics of superstition among us ; and that the ancient 
custom was revived, to have public burying j)laces in the 
free and open fields, without the gates of cities.'''' This 
pi-actice, which has, of late, been happily renewed in 
this country and in Europe, dates back at least to the 
time of Abraham, wdio bought the " field of Ephron " 



3(54 MOUNT AUBURN. 

for this purpose. The body of Joseph was buried in a 
plat of ground in Shechem. Moses was buried in a 
valley of Moab ; Eleazer on a " hill that pertained to 
Phinehas ; " and Manasseli " in the garden of Uzza ; " 
and the same practice continued down to the last period 
of the national existence of the Jews ; since we find that 
the tomb of Joseph of Arimathea, which became the 
temporary sepulchre of our Saviour, was near Golgotha ; 
those who are said to have arisen from the dead at the 
crucifixion, returned to the city ; and the demoniac who 
broke his chains, is described as having fled to the desert^ 
and dwelt among tombs. The Egyptians, as we have 
seen, placed their thronged " cities of the dead," without 
the borders of the cities of the livino;. While some of 
the Grecians permitted, at least occasionally, burials 
witliin cities, the Athenians disallowed the practice alto- 
gether. 

The Ceramicus was a public cemetery, situated on the 
road to Thria, and it was here that all the distinguished 
Athenians were buried. AVithin the confines of this, 
the Academy of Plato was situated, with its garden and 
gymnasium, and the river Cephisus ; and, according to 
Plato, the t^mb of Ariadne was in the Arethusian 
Groves of Crete. The sepulchres and monuments of 
the Corinthians were among groves of cypresses. On 
the now deserted coast of Karamania, a];e still to be seen 
the remains of funeral monuments, which were placed in 
the environs of the once splendid cities of Asia Minor. 
The practice of the Romans, through the whole course 
of their history, was the same, and that also of the early 
Christians. The ancient Germans buried their dead in 
groves, consecrated by religious services. The Eastern 
nations, particularly the Turks, have always been dis- 
tinguished for their reverential care of their places of 



EARLY CHRISTIAN OBSEQUIES. 



365 



interment. Viewing cleatli Avith no terror or gloom, 
tliey endeavor to divest the grave of all sad and revolt- 
ing associations, by surrounding it with every local 
charm, and by making it a place of common and delight- 
ful resort. It is made a part of their religion to plant at 
the head and foot of each grave, a cypress tree ; and 
thus, in the course of time, their cemeteries are converted 
into dense and shady groves. The burial place of Scu- 
tari, is said to be the most delightful spot in the vicinity 
of Constantinople ; " and probably," says Miss Pardoe, 
" the world cannot produce such another, as regards ex- 
tent, or pictorial effect." The great Turkish burial 
ground, just outside of the wall of Jerusalem, near St. 
Stephen's Gate, is the favorite place of promenading for 
the whole Turkish population in that city. It is adorned 
with trees and flowers, in a high state of cultivation ; 
and is regularly visited once a week, and, as a matter of 
religious observance, every holiday. The Afghans call 
their cemeteries the " cities of the silent," and hang 
garlands on the tombs of the departed, under the impres- 
sion that their ghosts, each seated at the head of his own 
grave, enjoy their fragrance. The churchyards in the 
reductions of Paraguay Avere so many gardens. 

The Moravian Brethren have long been in the habit 
of converting their burial places into haunts of rural 
loveliness ; and they are beautifully designated by them 
as " Fields of Peace." The tombs of the Chinese are 
always erected out of their cities. In Denmark, Venice, 
Prague, Vienna, and many other places in continental 
Europe, the practice of interring the dead within cities 
is prohibited. Even the North American Indians re- 
move them away from the abodes of the living. The 
same prohibition has, of late years, been adopted and en- 
forced in France and England. 
31* 



366 



MOUNT AUBURN. 



In this country a strono; and commendable interest in 
regard to rural cemeteries has been awakened. The 
successful establishment of that of Mount Auburn seems 
to have been the proximate cause of this. A general 
feeling, indeed, of the need of some appropriate resting 
place for the remains of departed friends, has long pre- 
vailed with many intelligent persons in different parts of 
the country ; but it found no fitting expression, until it 
found it here. The choice and general arrangement of 
the grounds were, in the highest degree, felicitous. The 
spot itself is singularly suggestive of those trains of 
thought and feeling, that belong to the Place of Graves ; 
and when its native loveliness was revealed by the hand 
of taste ; when it was yet further illustrated, but not en- 
cumbered by the structures and ornaments that affection' 
reared; when, especially, it was hallowed by the relics 
of the dead ; it became a resort peculiarly sacred to 
solemn musings and tender recollections. It was then 
felt to be one, where a deep want of the soul, that had 
long been experienced, was, for the first time, fully met 
and supplied. It has been followed, in consequence, by 
others in various parts of our broad land. We will only 
add, that we regard the establishment of these rural 
burying places as one of the happy signs of the times. 
They are due to the dead. They are consolatory to the 
living. They are fraught with moral and religious uses, 
which no good man will willingly forego. They afford a 
retreat from the conflicting interests, and false and frivol- 
ous shows of ordinary life, where our violent and wicked 
strifes on religious and political subjects may, for a while, 
be checked ; when that all-absorbing lust of gain, which 
is eating, canker-like, into the very heart of the people, 
may find a temporary sedative ; and where, in a word, 
thoughtful persons may go, in silence and in peace, and 



SORROW AND ITS RECOMPENSE. 367 

amidst propitious influences of earth and sky, aJid with 
all the suggestive tokens of the departed around them, 
to think of their highest aims, and their ultimate respon- 
sibilities ; and to consider how solemn a thing it is to live 
in a world like this, to die out of it, and to enter on the 
unseen realities of an eternal state. 

Note. — The preceding essays, by Dr. Brazer, are slightly 
abridged from two papers published in Vol. XXXI. of "The 
Christian Examiner," omitting the notes and references. 



SORROW AND ITS RECOMPENSE. 

The benevolence of the Deity has converted all our 
generous instincts into sources of happiness ; and in ad- 
dition to this, has created sorrow to be the native 
source of compassion and the sanctifier of friendship. 
The sentiment of grief, wath all the affliction that comes 
from its recent occurrence, was not given to man for 
pain ; for those Avho are susceptible of it in the liveliest 
degree derive the most pleasure from the exercise of the 
affections. Imbued with this innate capacity for sorrow, 
one is transported with joy by everything that brings its 
alleviation. Hence our fondness for the contemplation 
of tombs, under circumstances that turn our thoughts 
upon the virtues of those who lie beneath them, and 
yield the expectation of some immortal reversion of their 
fate. We experience similar pleasure from those em- 
blematic devices which, with true simplicity, afford one 
a vivid conception of the soul's immortality. It requires 
no elaborate effort to sIioav that we are dependent on 
this sentiment for some of the most exalted of our mental 



MOU^^T AUBURN. 



The poets who have sung the pleasures of memory 
liave done little more than to define the enjoyment that 
springs from looking, through a long vista of sorrow, 
upon painful as well as haj:>py events. The memory of 
voices that greeted our childhood, and the general sub- 
jects of elegy and other pathetic compositions, are all 
sorrowful themes ; and we find pleasure in them, because 
there is a joy in sympathy that comes not in equal de- 
gree from thoughts of unmixed happiness. All the themes 
of sacred poetry are pathetic ; their sublimity is height- 
ened by their pathos, and above all other lyric strains 
they serve to exalt the soul and to purify it by this ex- 
altation. Those natural phenomena are the most poetical 
and the most deeply affecting, which are associated with 
melancholy, or with some incidents that awaken our 
sympathies. The blast that mingles with the tempest, 
the misty cloud that rises in the evening upon the lake, 
the wdiirling sound of leaves eddying to the winds of 
autumn, and the monotonous surges of waves upon the 
sea-shore, are the plaintive language of nature, and we 
disten to it as to the voice of one who is administering 
consolation. 

The instinct of sorroAV is the basis of the purest im- 
pulses of the soul, and is closely connected with benevo- 
lent deeds and religious aspirations. Its shadows are 
intimately blended with the light of our social afixictions, 
and through its veil we can look more steadfastly upon 
that true light which is the jrift of heaven. It leads some 
to the contemplation of the Deity and his benevolence, 
through the works of nature ; others to the divine altar, 
that they may mingle their complaints with the great 
fountain of love, and find solace in prayers and ceremo- 
nials. It yields to man a sense of the dignity of his 
nature, by exalting the idols of his grief to the quality of 



SORROW AND ITS RECOMPENSE. 3G9 

angels, and by associating their luiman virtues with the 
attributes of heaven. It spreads a veil of affection over 
the cradle of infancy, and a halo of divinity above its 
grassy tomb. It mellows all things human with a celes- 
tial tint, and softens the harshness of material objects by 
its clouds and its shadows. 

Sorrow is the alembic, in which our passions are divest- 
ed of the dross of earthly corruption, and the faculties 
of the soul ennobled by the contemplation of heavenly 
themes. Poetry generally turns upon acts instigated by 
some exalted passion ; but there is none that affords such 
ever-new delight, as that which is drawn from the harp 
of sorrow, and borrows its inspiration from some theme 
of sadness. Hence the interest felt by all nations in the 
strains of elegy and other pathetic verse. Those flowers 
of the field that are supposed to emblemize grief, either 
by their colors, their solitary habits, or their drooping 
attitudes, are the favorites of all ; though not so often 
gathered in boquets, to decorate a scene of festivity, they 
are the chosen subjects of song, and affect us Avith the 
deepest emotions. The beauty of maidenhood is never 
so charming as when it wears the semblance of affliction, 
or the attitude of mercy. Christian nations have ever 
regarded the Holy Mother as the " fountain of love," 
and Jesus as the dispenser of mercy ; but even Jesus 
acquires new. dignity in our eyes, when he is viewed not 
only as a comforter, but as a participator of human alffic- 
tion, — as one " despised and rejected of men — a man 
sorrows and acquainted with grief." Thus does sorrow 
with its images ever exalt and sanctify what we have 
loved or revered, and weave the web of poetry over all 
the realities of human life. 

We delight to witness the phenomena of nature under 
aspects that present her to our imaginations as a gentle 



oTO MOUNT AUBURN. 

sympatliizer, or a seeming partner in our afflictions. 
Hence autumn is the favorite season of poets, because it 
emblemizes sorrow, and fills the lap of nature with dead 
leaves, which she strews over the graves of the flowers : 
and we love to hear the low moaning of the winds at this 
time, when they seem like dirges sung over the departed 
things of summer. For the same reason we love the 
evening twilight and Hesper's " melancholy star," because 
they inspire tender sensations of melancholy, aiid raise 
our souls at the same time to the contemplation of in- 
finity. The pale light of the moon gives us intimations 
of the sympathy of the serene goddess ; and while sitting 
under her light, lovers and mourners, those who rejoice 
and those who weep, feel the presence of a divinity and 
an alleviation of those passions that agitate the soul. 

The music that produces the most profound emotion is 
of a plaintive kind ; and those sounds, — not of a musical 
character, — which are nevertheless agreeable, have in- 
variably a sorrowful cadence. The murmurino; of winds 
among the branches of trees, sounds from the dropping of 
rain, and the voices of birds and iiisects, having a pa- 
thetic modulation, always enchain our attention, and 
serve, while they gently excite, to sooth and alleviate the 
sentiment of melancholy. The plaintiveness of the night- 
ingale's song is the chief cause of its delightful character, 
and the most interestino; of the feathered soncjsters are 
the chanters of plaintive strains. The pathetic pieces in 
a minor key, so numerous in the old psalmodies, were 
not, as it is often supposed, intended to afflict, but to in- 
spire the soul ; and in the most sublime of musical com- 
positions, there is an expression of sadness which is essen- 
tial to their effects. 

Sorrow, the gentle mother of musings, has thus ever 
been the source of the most fervent and inspiring strains 



SORROW ANT) ITS RECOMPENSE. o71 

of music and of poetry. From tlie earliest times slio Las 
been the ministrant of sweet sounds, — sittino; ever at lier 
liarp, — ever throuoli all ages, sweeping its strings with 
her mournful touch ; — now giving fire to the Epic 
Rhapsodists, when they sang of those who bled to deliver 
man from the first thraldom of barbarism ; also to the 
Hebrew Prophets, who, in their Psalms and Lamenta- 
tions, predicted not more clearly the woes of their peo- 
ple, than the Light that was to spring out of their 
present all-pervading darkness. She still pursues her 
heavenly themes — still inspires all music and all elo- 
quence, gives human interest to the revelations of heaven, 
and softens with divine faith all human adversity. 

Blessed be sorrow ! and blessed the branches of yew, 
and the wreaths of cypress and amaranth, with which 
she binds the brows of the dead, and fixes upon their tomb 
the symbols of the grave and of immortality ! Let us go 
to the resting-places of the dead, where the turfs lie in 
verduous heaps, and the flowers of the field scatter their 
incense over them and consecrate their repose. Here will 
the crentle mother receive us, and when we can no lono;cr 
be comforted by reason or philosophy, she lulls us to 
rest by the assurances of religion, and drawing her lessons 
from the objects of the material world, she points to the 
p'oro'eous hues of twilight in tlie dark forms of the clouds 
— the light of a happy religious faith glowing serenely 
upon the formless masses that cmblemize our sorrows. 



TTIE END. 



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